father tell me, do we get what we deserve?
by everywordnotsaid
Summary: What if Sam never died and Dean never traded his soul and no one ever went to hell. What if, sometimes, people just leave. Because Dean would die for Sam in a second, he knows that in his bones, it's living without him that's the trick. And he thinks it might just be driving him crazy.
1. Chapter 1

They've been on two hunts since they killed Azazel, and to be honest Dean's still trying to wrap his head around that, that Azazel's dead and they're not. The first was a nest of bloodsuckers down in Ohio, and they're just coming off a salt and burn in Klamath Falls, Oregon. They haven't gone perfectly, the two of them a little shaky, a little shaken, but Dean figures it's because they just wasted the thing they spent most of their goddamn lives chasing. Came out the other side one father short and a heap full of issues heavier, but alive. Both of them (and it's both or nothing, he knows that now) alive. He keeps waiting for the penny to drop on that one, can't help but feeling like they dodged a bullet he's not even sure is coming. Either way, he thinks they're probably entitled to a little bit of a rough patch. A few more jobs under their belt and the strangeness will iron itself out. Things will go back to the way they were before. And sure, dad is gone and sure Sam had some freaky psychic shit going on with his head that neither of them have really recovered from yet, but they'll bounce back. Winchester's always do.

He lets himself fall back onto the lumpy motel bed mattress with a groan, massaging his shoulder. The ghost bitch had got him good before her bones went up in flames, thrown him straight into a solid granite gravestone. Sam too, she'd managed to send his brother right down a flight of stairs when he wasn't looking. He'd complained all the way back to the Impala about his ribs, but when Dean had checked them over he hadn't found any breaks or fractures. Nothing a little ibuprofen and an ice pack couldn't fix right up.

There are a few cold beers in the motel mini fridge just calling out to him, and he'd seen a diner down the street from where they were staying with five-dollar burgers that looked nice and artery clogging. He's tired and sore and his head still feels a little fuzzy from where it collided with gravestone but he's got his brother and his baby parked outside and for the first time in a long time he feels…satisfied. He almost smiles at the thought, his dad would tell him he's going all soft in his old age, but if this is what it feels like he doesn't mind so much. Funny, he's turning 28 in January, and sure that's not that old but there were some days (a lot of days) he didn't think he'd make it to 28. Maybe he's got someone looking out for him after all.

"So," he says, reaching for the remote and flicking on the TV, "Hunter friend of mine was telling me about some weird cattle mutilations down in Arizona, thought it might be a skinwalker or a black dog. That's only a two days drive from here, how 'bout it?"

Sam's silent for a long time, and when Dean glances over at him he's got that look on his face that means he's thinking real hard about what he's going to say next. Dean almost never likes what comes when Sam's looking like that. When he finally speaks it's quiet.

"Dean…I'm not coming with you."

The gentle hum of some talk-show host in the background fades away till all Dean hears is static and he swallows.

"What," he says weakly, "Gonna a let a few bruised ribs keep you out of the game? Didn't realize you'd turned into such a girl Sammy."

He knows that's not what Sam means, not really, but maybe if he just pretends Sam will drop it and laugh and make some snarky comment about how he's not a girl and then they'll head down to that diner down the road with it's five dollar burgers and everything'll be alright. Sam doesn't laugh though, just looks at Dean with big puppy dog eyes and shakes his head.

"No, Dean. I mean… I've been talking with someone from admissions at Harvard. They're willing to give me another shot at an interview, because of everything that went down with-well, with how I left. I think I'm going to take it."

He sounds hesitant, faltering his way through the sentence like he's just waiting for Dean to stop him, waiting for the anger to come. And at first Dean is pissed. The anger's familiar and it starts in his stomach and claws it's way up his throat and he welcomes it because anger is safe and easy and if he's angry then he doesn't have to be anything else. And goddammit, he thinks he has a right to be pissed because after all this, after everything they went through, losing Dad and killing this freaking demon and the shit that's happened Sam's just gonna up and leave him first chance he gets. Go back to his safe normal life like he'd promised Dean he would in that hotel room in Chicago. Back to remnants of the all the ordinary he'd built for himself. Like none of this mattered, like they had never mattered. He's about to open his mouth and tell him so, but then he looks at Sam, really looks at him, and he just looks uncertain and nervous and so so young and he feels all the fight drain out of him, just like that. Just like always.

Because what's so bad about what Sam wants. A normal life, a safe life. Once upon a time Dean had spit that word out like a curse but now…now he's not so sure he means that anymore. He looks at his brother, pale and bruised, sitting on top of the covers of a crappy motel room bed with hope in his eyes and thinks that he deserves better then this. Deserves better then bruised ribs and rock salt and .45's, better then driving town to town with no place to call home and probably getting your guts ripped out before you're thirty. Sam has a chance at something better, something with a home and a family and maybe even a happy ending and really, who is Dean to stand in the way of that? What right does he have?

He could tell himself some pretty lies about how Sam needs him. How he needs to protect his little brother from the things that go bump in the dark and he could almost pretend they're true. The real truth though is that Sam hasn't needed him since he turned 18 and hopped on a greyhound to Palo Alto, maybe he hasn't ever really needed him if he's honest. No, the real reasons Dean wants Sam to stay are because he's selfish and weak and so so scared of being alone.

So he pushes down the anger and the bitter and slaps on a smile.

"That's great, Sammy."

And it feels like he's talking through a throat full of glass, but he forces the words out anyways. Sammy glances up at him through his sloppy bangs that he really needs to get trimmed and there's a look of such hope in his eyes that Dean has to turn away.

"Really?"

He almost whispers, all hesitant and surprised and Dean's stomach twists into a knot.

"Yeah," he grits out through a smile that feels a little like it's bleeding at the edges. "Of course. So hard to believe I'd be proud of my little brother, even if he's a giant geek?"

Sam laughs a little, and it sounds relieved.

"No, I just figured you'd try to talk me out of it or something. Call me an asshole at least."

Dean shrugs.

"You're a big boy Sam, you can make your own choices. If this is what you want, I'm not gonna stop you."

Even if what you want is to leave me behind he thinks vaguely, but doesn't say. Swallows it down with all the other things he's never had the guts to say and never will.

Sam's smiling now, a real smile all big and wide and sunny and he thinks he hasn't seen Sam smile like this in years. And then Sam's hugging him, lanky arms squeezing him so hard it almost hurts and his hair's pressed into the side of Dean's face and it smells like dirt and lighter fluid and smoke and it smells like home and Dean lets him for a few seconds before he gently shoves him off.

"Hey, what've I told you about chick flick moments. Don't need any of that sappy shit alright?"

He says gruffly, because gruff is all he's ever known and all he'll ever know and it hurts too much to wish for something else. Sam laughs again, a little wet and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Aw, are you cryin' Samantha? You really are a big girl after all."

He teases lightly and Sam rolls his eyes and snorts and mutters something under his breath before tossing a pillow at Dean and it's so easy and normal that for a second the knot that's formed in Dean's chest uncoils a little. Then he remembers that suddenly this has an expiration date and it's like he can't breathe. The room feels too small, static of the TV still buzzing in his ears and the faint electric whine of the mini-fridge in the corner and he needs to not be there anymore, needs to be anywhere else but here in this tiny shitty room with Sam and the knowledge that the only thing he has left in the world is leaving him behind.

"Saw a diner down the street on the way in, I think I'm going to grab a bite."

He says abruptly, standing and grabbing his jacket from where he'd thrown it over the back of a chair. Sam stands too, frowning a little. His forehead creases and it makes him look young, despite the fact that he towers over Dean. He remembers when Sam had been small enough to tuck under his chin, small enough to hide from the world in Dean's arms when he had a nightmare. Those days are long gone now, though.

"Want some company?"

Sam asks, trying to be casual and failing but Dean just shakes his head.

"Nah, I'll be fine. Don't need your weird nerd shit killing my vibes anyways."

Sam rolls his eyes and huffs, but the concern doesn't leave his face and Dean makes a quick exit before Sam starts to pull his whole 'lets talk about our feelings together' shtick because he thinks he might actually tell him how he feels if he asks and he can't afford to fall apart, not now. Not in front of Sam.

Klamath Falls is a tiny town and it only takes him a few minutes to walk to the sleazy bar he saw a few buildings down from the diner. It's familiar, in the way most small town dive bars become after a while. Seen one and you've seen 'em all, Dad used to say. Still, it's comforting in it's familiarity. There's something about the dim lighting and sticky floor and the muted hum of neon and The Rolling Stones that seems to promise that some things will never change. The world could burn to ashes and all the Al's Taverns and Tiki-Ti's of the world would still open their doors up every morning for business like clockwork, and hell if there wouldn't be someone to drink in them, sticky floorboards and jukebox tunes be damned.

There's a few other patrons already drowning their earthly woes in alcohol at six in the evening but Dean ignores them and heads straight for the bar. He orders a shot of something dark and strong and when the bartender moves to put away the bottle he shakes his head and slaps a twenty down on the grimy bar top. Bottle safely in hand he retreats to an equally grimy booth in the far corner of the room and sets himself to the task of getting fucked up enough to forget about the ache in his chest.

A few hours later and he's done a pretty damn good job of that. His mouth tastes of whiskey and he sees the room through the gentling haze of alcohol and where there used to be a knot in his chest there's just a comforting numbness. The bar's filled up a bit now, and somebody changed the Stones to some corny ass country crap that grates at his ears. He's just about to get up to go switch it back because he's had a shitty day and the last thing he wants to do is listen to some hick yodel about how he wants to fuck his truck or whatever those songs are usually about, when someone clears their throat. He glances blearily up to see a pretty brunette with too much eye shadow and a beer in her hand standing in front of his table in an outfit that doesn't make much sense considering the chilly November weather outside, although Dean's pretty sure she wasn't thinking of the weather when she got dressed. She smiles at him, white teeth flashing in the dim.

"Hey there cowboy," She says and her voice is husky and low and sounds like smoke and cigarettes. "You here all alone?"

He shrugs, runs a thick tongue over his lips and tries to think of something clever to say.

"Yeah, just me tonight."

Is all that comes out, and he thinks of legs that never quite fit under the table and luke-warm beers and the way Sam still can't hold his liquor even though he's 24 years old. She still laughs though, and it's a nice laugh.

"Well then, how would you feel about some company?"

He looks at her with her soft skin and nice laugh and the way her jean skirt hangs low on the curve of her hips and thinks about how very much not like Sam she is and waves a heavy arm.

"How could I say no when company looks like you?"

He answers with a wink. She grins, sliding into the booth across from him and setting her beer down on the warped plastic of the table. It's humid in here now, too many bodies and not enough windows, and he can see beads of condensation that cling to the dark glass of the bottle, tricking down the peeling paper label.

"So," she asks, taking a sip of her drink. "Got a name?"

"It's Dean."

He replies, helping himself to a shot of whiskey and throwing it back. The bottle's almost empty now. She watches him, little half smile playing on her lips.

"Any reason you're drinking like the world's about to end, Dean?"

He shrugs again, laughs a little bitterly and pours himself another shot.

"Oh you know, family drama."

Her eyebrows quirk but she doesn't question further, just lifts her beer in the air.

"Well, I'll toast to that."

He raises his own glass, lets the rim clink against her bottle.

"To family."

She says.

"Yeah, to family."

He echoes or what's left of it and the word tastes more bitter in his mouth then the whiskey on his tongue. She watches him as she drains her beer, eyes fixed on his and there's a look on her face that Dean's learned to recognize ever since he turned 16 and learned what a wink and a few pretty words could do. He holds her gaze and doesn't look away.

At some point her legs have migrated under the table and now he can feel her bare skin sliding against the denim of his jeans with a quiet rasp. She leans over, lips close enough to brush against his cheek.

"Follow me, Dean."

She whispers, and her breath sends shivers down his spine and when she gets up and sashays her way towards the bathroom he does follow her because he knows you can't drink and fuck the pain away but that sure as hell won't stop him from trying.

As soon as the door swings shut behind them she's on him, hands in his hair and under the hem of his shirt and her lips pressed hard against his. Up close she smells like sweat and spilled beer and something cheap and floral, skin sticky against his. Her hands push insistently at his button-down and he wriggles out of it, letting it crumple to the floor beneath their feet. Her blouse joins it a second later and he runs his hands up her stomach, enjoying the way she shivers under his fingers. She nips lightly at the line of his jaw as her hands work at the buckle of his belt and he throws his head back against the wall behind him as she palms him through the fabric of his boxers.

Just as he's working his t-shirt off somebody pounds loudly at the bathroom door. Freeing an arm he pounds back.

"Bathroom's in use, go piss in the alley buddy."

He growls, and there's some irritated mumbling from outside but he can hear footsteps trailing away.

"I like man who knows what he wants."

She says a little breathily in his ear, half-laughter. Her hands slipped inside the elastic band of his boxers now and it's getting hard to focus on anything but the heat of her fingers.

"Oh, sweetheart," he says, and lets his voice darken, "I know what I want."

Wrapping his hands around the backs of her thighs, just below the curve of her ass, he picks her up and spins, pinning her back against the wall and hitching her legs around his waist. She gasps in surprise, but it quickly turns to a moan as he leans down and presses his mouth to the swell of her breast. The lace of her bra is scratchy against his lips as his tongue flicks teasingly against the hard point of her nipple. He feels her fingers curl in his hair and sucks a little harder, smirking when her grip tightens.

Lifting his head again he kisses her rough, reaching down between them to push her panties aside, lining himself up.

"Hold on," she says a little breathlessly, grabbing his wrist, "Do you have a condom?"

He swears and nods, fumbling in the back pocket of his jeans till he finds his wallet and slipping out the foil packet he always keeps there, tucked behind fake credit cards and the cash he hustles off of drunks. Sam would make fun of him he knows, make some snarky comment about always being prepared, but Sam doesn't know and he won't ever know and he'll never get to make those snarky comments and that shouldn't hurt but it does.

"Having second thoughts?"

She asks, half-joking and sultry. He shakes his head, ripping open the packet with his teeth and letting her fish out the condom. The foil tastes like iron against his tongue, tastes like blood and he's not sure which is more familiar.

"I don't want to think at all."

And he's not joking, not even a little bit. Then he slides into her, his fingers pressing into the backs of her thighs and her fingers scratching at his back and lets the anger and the loneliness and the fear slip away for one brief shining moment of pleasure.

When he finishes he presses his face into the curve where her throat meets her collarbone, fingers digging bruises into her legs. She cries out, high and keening, and her body trembles beneath him, skin feverish where it touches his. He stands there for a moment with his face pressed into her neck, her arms around his shoulders. It's a pale tawdry imitation of intimacy, belayed by the grimy bar bathroom they're in but Dean clings to it. When they've both caught their breath a bit he lets her down slowly, steadying hands at her hips as she unwinds her legs from around him.

He watches her quietly as she pulls her skirt down around her waist, collects her shirt from the floor. Glancing in the mirrors she smooth's her hair down a bit, pulling a stick of lipstick out of her pocket to fix the smears of red at her mouth.

"Thanks for the ride, cowboy."

She says with a grin when she's done, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and then just like that she's gone and Dean's alone again. The hazy afterglow of sex burns away just as quick, leaving him numb and empty with a hole in his chest that won't go away.

And maybe that's why he's in the bathroom of some shithole bar with most of a bottle of Jim Beam in his stomach and the lipstick of a woman who's name he never even learned pressed onto his cheek like a brand, because he's always looking for things to fill that hole. Always looking for more and never quite finding it in the booze or the women or the violence. Suddenly the sweat drying on his skin and the scent of her perfume that still clings to him feels dirty and cheap and crass, feels like a betrayal of something he can't put words too. The heat in his stomach from the cheap liquor is fading, leaving the cool grasping fingers of reality to wind their way around his neck and squeeze tight and Dean's throat aches for another drink.

Shaking his head he pushes open the door and stumbles back out, squinting owlishly against the sudden light and noise. Weaving slightly he starts to head back to the bar for another round, accidently clipping some skinny college looking kid's shoulder as he brushes past. He slurs out an apology, eyes still fixed on his goal with the single-minded focus of the truly shitfaced.

"Watch where you're going, asshole!"

The kid barks, obviously trying to sound threatening but coming off more as a little whiny and petulant then intimidating.

"Hey man, I said I'm sorry alright. No harm no foul?"

Dean says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. The guy doesn't look very placated though, thin lips twisting in an unpleasant snarl. Around them the room's gone quiet, everyone holding their breath like they can smell the fight in the air.

"You made me spill my beer!" He spits, gesturing to the damp stain down his front, "I just got this shirt."

Dean sighs, eyes flickering back to the bar. He doesn't particularly want a fight, just another drink, but he's a little past three sheets to the wind and he's never been very good at diplomacy anyways, that was always Sammy's gig.

"Probably did you a favor to be honest," he says, grinning crookedly, "Piece of advice buddy, chicks don't dig dudes who look like they just raided their great grandfather's closet for date night. Although, I think you're shit out of luck in that department either-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. He sees the fist coming from a mile away but he's too drunk and sore to get out of the way and it clips him solidly in the cheek. Of course it has about as much strength behind it as a prepubescent Sam could muster so it doesn't do much (and it's funny how he thinks that, funny how everything in his life always comes back to Sam). The kid gets two more shots in, another to the face and then one to the stomach before Dean pulls his shit together and lets most of a life spent getting in fights take over. A few seconds later and Dean has the other guy on the floor, legs on either side of his chest, and starts to whale on him.

He struggles, bucking and wriggling under him but Dean's heavier and bigger and stronger and now he's pissed off and drunk too. A flailing elbow catches Dean in the nose and pain blooms white hot, something warm and salty trickling down his lips and chin, but Dean shakes it off and keeps pounding. It feels good, if Dean's honest with himself. And it's a little scary that it feels good. But everything else in Dean's life is falling apart right now and there's nothing he can do about it and this makes him feel a little less helpless, a little more in control-a fucked up rationale a shrink would probably have a field day with. Sir, are you aware that you have an unhealthy relationship with violence, alcohol, physical intimacy, emotional intimacy (and the laundry list goes on and on) because Dean is nothing but a nicely wrapped package of issues. Still, he may be shit at most things but at least he can still win a fight if he needs too.

At least he's winning until somebody brings a chair down across his back, as it turns out whiny has a friend. The cheap wood splinters and cracks on contact but the force is enough to throw Dean off of the other man and send him sprawling on his side, air knocked right out of him as he skids across the hardwood. He barely has a second to catch his breath before a foot barrels into his stomach. He wheezes, but reaches out to grab at the attached leg, giving it a hard yank. The second guy comes down nearly on top of him and from there it's a mess of arms and fists and teeth, the kind of dirty all out brawl you get when you mix too much booze and not enough brain and a whole lot of repressed anger and hurt and pain.

The familiar sound of a twelve gauge being racked stops them both in their tracks though, still tangled together on the floor.

"Now you gentleman are welcome to continue this, but it will be outside of my goddamn bar, unless you want me to call the cops on your dumb asses."

Dean looks over to see the bartender standing behind the bar with the business end of a shotgun pointed down at the two of them. Smiling widely he carefully releases his death grip on the other man's collar, holding his hands up and slowly getting to his feet.

"Woah there, I'm not looking for any trouble. Me and my pal here were just having a little friendly disagreement."

The bartender scoffs, the barrel of his gun not wavering.

"I'm sure you were, and like I said, you're welcome to continue. Outside."

Dean's new friend scrambles clumsily to his feet, glaring daggers at Dean and if looks could kill, well, he'd be six feet under. Fortunately for Dean though they can't, and so all he does is glare as he pulls his buddy to his feet and with a middle finger pointed in Dean's direction make a beeline for the exit. Running with his tail between his legs, Dean thinks as he watches him go, a numb satisfaction settling in his chest. Around him the quiet hum of conversation resumes, the entertainment over. Reaching into his wallet he pulls out the biggest bill he can find and walking over drops it on the bar top.

"Sorry about that, here's something to cover the furniture."

The older man finally sets down his shotgun, leaning it against the bar.

"It's alright, thing was a piece of shit anyways."

Dean shrugs, but leaves the money where it is. Blood's still dripping down his face so he tilts his head back, pinches at the bridge of his nose with a wet sniff. He feels something being pressed into his other hand and glances down to see a mostly clean rag.

"Here, don't bleed all over everything."

He raises an eyebrow but tilts his head back again, pressing the rag to his nose.

"Thought you wanted me out of your bar."

He says, voice muffled by the fabric. The bartender shrugs, picking up an empty glass and starting to clean it half-heartedly.

"I mostly wanted those two idiots gone." He says, gesturing towards the door. "I was watching you son, the brat in the ugly paisley threw the first punch. And two against one, well, that's not what we call fair where I come from."

There's something about him that reminds Dean of Bobby, not the scruffy beard or dirty tee or even the slight smell of beer and car oil, he thinks it's the eyes. Kinder then you'd expect to find in such a worn face.

"Well, I may have thrown some fuel on the fire."

He admits with a half smile. Sniffing again he pulls the rag away from his face, prodding carefully and his nose and wincing. It's sore and tender, but not broken as far as he can tell. The bartender snorts, setting down one glass and picking up another.

"I'm sure you did." and then eyeing him carefully, "You got a place to stay tonight, son?"

Usually Dean hates when people call him son, first because he's nearly 28 and he could very well be somebody's dad himself, and second because he isn't anybody's son. Not anymore, not ever again. But for some reason he finds he doesn't mind it so much now.

"Yeah, I do. I should actually be getting back. Thanks for…"

He trails off, waving the bloody rag in the air. The bartender nods, shrugs.

"It's no problem."

And then, as Dean turns and starts to walk away he calls out.

"Whatever demons you're running from, I hope you find some peace from them."

Dean pauses, swallowing. Without looking back he says, almost to quietly for the other man to hear,

"Yeah. Me too."

Because he doesn't know how to tell him that the kinds of demons that follow Dean, well you don't ever get peace from them, you just hope they kill you quick.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean stumbles back into the motel room a little past two in the morning, bleary and aching and still drunk. The small desk lamp is on and Sam's passed out in a chair beside it, arms crossed over his chest and lines of worry creased into his face even in sleep. He starts awake when Dean opens the door; hand going for the gun sitting on the desk and used to be that would have made Dean proud but now it just makes him sad. His eyebrows crease as he looks Dean over, taking in the fresh bruises on his face and the blood staining the front of his shirt.

"Jesus," he says, frustration and concern all wrapped up in one in a way that only Sam can manage. "What the hell happened Dean?"

Dean shrugs, grins till he tastes salt in his mouth.

"Guess the folks around here aren't a fan of my particular brand of charm. I'm fine though."

Sam sighs, standing with one hand on his hip and the other rubbing at his forehead looking for all the world like an aggrieved parent confronting their kid who'd snuck out to go partying. Dean smirks at the thought. And then doesn't.

"I was worried, you said you were just going to grab dinner but then you didn't come back and I tried calling but you didn't pick up and I thought…"

He trails off there, but Dean knows how the sentence was going to end. He sighs, and even though looking at his brother right now feels like sticking a knife in his stomach and twisting he does it anyway, holds his gaze.

"Hey, Sammy, I'm fine." He repeats, as gentle as he can manage. "I promise. It was just a couple stupid college kids who drank too much all right. Seriously, you should see the other guy."

He cracks a smile at the last bit, holding up his bruised knuckles and wiggling his fingers. Sam looks like he wants to say something, eyebrows still creased and worried but Dean doesn't let him because he thinks right now any more kindness might undo him.

"Look, it's late and I'm wiped. You can lecture me about it in the morning okay."

He doesn't wait for a response, just stumbles over to his bed, trailing pieces of clothing as he goes. He can feel Sam's silent judgment radiating off him in waves as he wrangles the heavy covers over himself, sinking into the under stuffed mattress with a groan. He doesn't fall asleep for a long time though. Instead he lies in bed and listens to Sam move around for a bit, switching off the lights and pulling off his clothes. Listens to the rustle of sheets as Sam gets into his own bed, listens as his breathing slows and deepens, settling into the gentle rhythm of sleep.

Eventually, he slips away to the even in and out of his brothers breath and if he dreams he doesn't remember it.

The next morning he's woken by the sun streaming through the motel window and the sound of an engine revving in the parking lot outside. He groans, lifting a hand to shield his tender eyes from the light, squinting against the pounding that echoes against the back of his skull. His mouth tastes like stale whiskey and regret and he runs his tongue over dry lips. His nose is sore and tender to the touch, and when he swallows he can taste blood. Rolling over he blinks the sleep out of his eyes and looks at the cheap alarm clock sitting on the bed stand. The blinking red letters spell out 9:27 AM. Sam let him sleep in then, which is unusual for his brother. Normally Sam's the one dragging him out of bed at ungodly hours in the morning with more energy then anyone should reasonably have at that time of day. Maybe he's taking pity on him for once, which all things considering he thinks he deserves.

Glancing at his brother's bed he finds it empty and already made, neat and tidy. He rolls his eyes at that and then immediately regrets the action, head spinning wildly. Propping himself up on an elbow he scans the rest of the room and finds it just as empty as the bed. Something that feels a lot like fear starts to bloom in his stomach but he ignores it. Sam's probably just in the bathroom, he's probably going to walk out any second and start lecturing Dean about communication and trust and all that girly shit. A few minutes pass though and Sam doesn't emerge, and he can't hear any sign of his brother either. The fear starts to grow, clawing it's way into his chest and up his throat, and he gives up on trying to tame it. Pushing off the covers he swings his feet onto carpeted floor, calling out as he does.

"Sammy?"

The word echoes against the cramped walls, sounding small and tentative in the emptiness. There's no reply. He stands; walking quickly over to the bathroom door, nearly tripping over his jeans abandoned on the floor from the night before, and shoves it open without knocking. The room is devoid of any sign of Sam. He steps back, pulling it shut and running a jittery hand through his hair.

He's being ridiculous, he knows that, because Sam wouldn't just leave like this, without even saying goodbye. For all that they bicker and squabble they still care about each other, it's just what brothers do. Sam wouldn't… but Sam did, a small bitter voice in the back of his head whispers, Sam left you then with nothing but a note on a pillow and a promise to call once he got settled at Stanford. He swallows hard, shoving the thought away. That was a long time ago, a lifetime ago it feels like now, and so much has changed since then. Things are different now; he and Sam are different now.

Still, he calls Sam, twice, just in case. He gets voicemail straightaway both times, and each time he feels his stomach sink a little farther. He ends up pacing up and down the length of the small room, heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest and his mouth dry as bone as the minutes tick by.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the door creaks open, spinning wildly, his hand reaching for a knife that isn't there. Sam's standing in the doorway, one hand on the handle and the other holding a grease stained paper bag and a cardboard tray of coffee. Dean nearly sags in relief at the sight, heart slipping out his mouth and back into his chest.

"Where the hell were you? I called! Twice!"

He's too relieved to be properly angry though, and he's aware of how much he sounds like Sam did when he stumbled in last night. He tries not to think about the irony there. Sam raises his eyebrows, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

"I was just getting breakfast man, chill. Thought you'd want the extra sleep. And my phone was dead."

He says, setting the coffee and bag down on the table. And then, giving Dean an appraising look,

"You look like crap, Dean."

Dean's throat tightens and he turns away, trying to cover how his voice wavers when he replies.

"Yeah, well, good morning to you too dickhead."

Later, over cheap bitter coffee and oily breakfast sandwiches from a cafe a few blocks down (and really that's just another sign that's something up because Sam is always the one going on about how a heart attack's going to get him before the job does if he doesn't eat something that's not fifty percent grease) Dean finally broaches the topic he's been trying not to think about.

"So," he says between bites, "When do you think you're heading back to California?"

He tries to sound casual, like he couldn't care less what the answer is. He's not sure how well he succeeds. Sam sighs, wiping his hands off on a paper napkin.

"Um, today, actually."

Dean swallows a chunk of English muffin and cheese, setting down his own sandwich.

"Oh. That's soon."

Sam shrugs, fiddling a little nervously with the lid of his coffee cup, snapping it on and off again repetitively. Dean watches him, the greasy food suddenly sitting heavy in his stomach like a rock.

"Yeah I know. I just… I figured sooner is better then later right? If I'm lucky I'll be able to enroll before the next semester starts."

Dean nods, clears his throat.

"Yeah. Of course. Well, I'll give you a ride down then I guess."

Sam shakes his head, bangs flying back and forth across his forehead in a way that would have been comical in any situation other then this but now just feels vaguely tragic.

"It's fine, you don't have too. If you just drop me off in Medford I can take a Greyhound."

"Aw come on, it'll be fun. Our last family road trip." Dean jokes lamely, trying to smile. "Anyways, I'm headin' that way to get to Arizona so I might as well."

Sam watches him carefully for a second and Dean watches back. Finally he shrugs.

"Alright, if you're sure."

Dean rolls his eyes, standing and wiping the crumbs off of his lap, shoves the last of his breakfast in his mouth.

"Of course I'm sure. Think I would have offered if I wasn't?"

He says, around the lump of food in his mouth. Sam laughs at that, finally smiling. He stands too, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I guess not."

The drive to Palo Alto's about seven hours. Seven hours and then Sam's gone, off to his apple pie life and his old friends, off to be safe and comfortable and happy. Seven hours till the future Dean had built for himself crumbles away. It's the longest and the shortest drive of Dean's life.

There are a thousand things Dean wants to say to him: I'm sorry, I love you, I'm proud of you, I forgive you. None of them come out though, stuck in his throat like glue. Instead they chat about stupid everyday things, which Zeppelin song's the best, whether or not the pretty blonde schoolteacher back in Ohio had wanted to bang Dean or not (Dean says yes, Sam says no). They don't talk about dad, or the job, or what's going to happen now that Sam's leaving, or anything important really.

Maybe that's for the better though. Maybe it's best that Dean remembers Sam this way, as the little moments in between the chaos and the violence and the hunts. The moments where they could just be two brothers, driving down the sunny California coast with the wind in their hair and rock music playing a little too loud out the open window and their whole future stretched out in front of them on the interstate. It's a nice thought, but it hurts a little too much so Dean locks it away with all the other dreams that aren't coming true.

They stop in Sacramento for lunch, grabbing burgers at a fast food joint. Dean picks at his, pretending to eat it and then sliding the thing into the trash when Sam isn't looking. When they pull back onto the highway Sam gives the dashboard a funny glance.

"What?"

"Dude, the speed limit's seventy."

Dean glances at him, confused.

"Yeah, I know. So?"

Sam shrugs.

"You're going seventy."

Dean glances down at the speedometer and sure enough the needles hovering at just above seventy-one. He frowns at, glances back to the road.

"Okay, so I'm going the speed limit? What's the big deal?"

Sam gives him an incredulous look, laughing a little.

"What's the big deal? Dean, I've literally never seen you go the speed limit before in my life. You get pissed off if you have to drive behind someone who's five miles over."

Dean clears his throat, suddenly defensive.

"You really want to criticize me for being a safe driver man? Really? I'm just watching out for both our necks here, California drivers are a menace."

He says gruffly. Sam snorts, shaking his head.

"Sure, whatever you say Dean."

He replies in a tone of voice that very obviously implies that he doesn't believe him in the slightest. Dean presses down on the gas pedal in response, car rocking forward jerkily as it accelerates, and turns the music up a little louder.

When they finally hit the Palo Alto city limits Dean thinks he might actually be sick. He never thought that he could hate a city so much but as he passes the battered green and white city limits sign he think he wouldn't mind so much if the whole damn place burned to the ground. Sam for his part looks excited, perking up a little as they get closer and the spark in his eyes would almost be endearing if it weren't because he was leaving Dean behind.

He drops him outside a crappy motel just off the interstate, one that looks exactly like the hundreds of others they've bunked down in over the years. Dean sits in the drivers seat; numb and unmoving as Sam shrugs on his jacket and pulls his duffel out of the back, collects every piece of his life from the Impala.

"Well," he huffs finally, "I guess this is it. Thanks for the ride."

"Yeah, no problem."

Dean reaches into his pocket for his wallet, fishing out all the cash he has left and pressing it into Sam's hand

"Here, this should pay for a room and some groceries."

Sam looks at the crumpled wad of bills and back at Dean.

"I can't take this Dean."

He says, trying to hand it back but Dean just waves him off, looking out the window.

"Yes you can Sammy. I still have a few credit cards all right, and there's always drunk idiots to hustle wherever I go. Just…just let me do this for you, okay?"

Sam seems to sense that it's not a battle he can win and stuffs the money into his pocket.

"Thanks, Dean."

He says softly. Dean just shrugs it off,

"It's nothing. Anyways, you should get going. If I wanna make it to Arizona by midnight I gotta get a move on."

Sam swallows, eyebrows all creased in that way Sam always gets when he's trying not to cry, mouth twitching convulsively.

"Alright. I'll call you in a few days okay?"

Dean nods,

"And you'll have to visit once I get my own place and get settled in. I can show you around, you can meet some of my friends from school."

"Sure, of course Sammy."

Dean says, smiling. He knows of course, that he won't. What place would he have here in the land of pretty tan co-eds, libraries that you don't use for researching the latest supernatural freak trying to kill you, and concerns that don't have to do with whether or not you remembered to pack the silver bullets. No, Sam will call him a few times and they'll talk and pretend nothing's changed and then eventually the calls will come slower and slower, just on holidays and Dean's birthday, and then eventually they'll stop coming at all. Eventually Dean will slip away, a shadow of a life that Sam doesn't live anymore, doesn't need anymore. And honestly, it's better that way. For the both of them.

Sam gives him one last look and then he turns and pushes open his door, sliding out of the Impala. He's just walking around the front of the car towards the motel when he hesitates, turning back and tapping on Dean's window. He rolls it down, mouth dry. Sam leans down till he's level with Dean, bracing his arms on the window frame. He has to bend almost double to reach.

"Hey, Dean, you gonna be alright? You know, without me or…or dad?"

Dean scoffs.

"Of course I will be dumbass. You know I did manage to survive on my own before I picked you up from geek-land. I'm actually pretty good at my job, believe it or not."

Sam doesn't seem convinced, that irritating hint of concern surfacing in his eyes.

"I know but just…be careful alright?"

"Jesus Sammy, I'll be fine okay. Just stop worrying about everything for like ten seconds."

Sam sighs, taking a step back and hitching his backpack higher on his shoulder.

"Okay. Well… see you around Dean."

"Yeah, see you around." And then, because Dean doesn't like saying goodbye but he needs to say something, "Bitch."

Sam smiles at that, a real smile and it tears at Dean's heart a little.

"Jerk."

And then Dean's rolling up the window and pulling out of the parking lot, heading towards the freeway entrance because he thinks if he doesn't leave now he might never leave, might sit in that motel parking lot forever. He watches as Sam grows smaller in the rearview mirror, watches him till he disappears into the line of the horizon and once again Dean is alone.

As soon as he hits open road he reaches down into the foot well of the passengers side for his box of cassettes where it had been relegated upon Sam's arrival and tosses it up on the seat. Then he puts Sam's least favorite Metallica album in and turns the stereo up as loud as it'll go, yelling along to the music as he drives. It won't be so bad with Sam gone, he thinks. It'll be like the old days, just him and baby and the road. Nobody to nag at him to eat something that doesn't come prepackaged, nobody to look out for on the hunt, nobody to scoff at his music taste. Yeah, it'll be better this way.

He feels something wet on his cheek and suddenly the road is blurry in front of his eyes. He sniffs, reaching up to wipe at his face and his hand comes away damp and salty. And suddenly it's like something in him snaps and then he's crying for real, shoulders hitching and chest aching and he has to pull over on the side of the road because he can barely see the highway and his hands are unsteady on the wheel. The air in the Impala is stale and suffocating and he shoves open the door and half stumbles half falls onto his hands and knees in the dirt and gravel of the shoulder of the highway. He feels like he's choking, deep gulping sobs wracking through him and he can't remember the last time he cried like this. Not when Dad died, not even when he thought he'd lost Sam forever. And how selfish is that? That he cries like this only when he is afraid of his own loneliness, that he cries like this for no one but himself.

Still, the tears don't stop and all he can do is ride out the wave as best he can. His fingers scrabble in the dust for purchase on something, and he closes a fist around a handful of gravel and squeezes for all he's worth. The sharp little rocks cut into the fleshy skin of his palm and fingers but he just squeezes harder, letting the pain burn through the fog of hopelessness threatening to pull him under and ground him.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, crouched on his hands and knees in the dirt but eventually the sobs fade into silence, lungs unclenching, and he pushes himself up; sitting back on his haunches and taking deep heaving breaths. Carefully he uncurls his fingers, gravel slipping out of his grasp and skittering across the ground. His palm is a mess, red and raw and the rocks have punctured skin and drawn blood in a few places. He rubs it absent-mindedly on the dusty knee of his jeans, smearing red into the fabric. It's not the first bloodstain these pants have seen, likely not the last either.

He doesn't know if he feels better now, mostly he just feels empty. Like the tears washed away everything out from the inside of him and now he's a shell, a dead man walking whose body just hasn't gotten the message that his heart's stopped beating yet. Stopped beating the second he left Sam behind in that motel parking lot because all he ever goddamn wanted was a family and the world sure as hell did a good job of making sure he never got his back.

It's starting to get dark now, he realizes. Somewhere during the course of his pity party the sun had set and he shivers in the cool air. Sniffing he runs his unfucked hand down his face, wiping away snot and tears and pushes himself to his feet, getting back into the Impala. She's still running, engine a low comforting hum he can feel through the warm leather seats, and Metallica's still blaring in the background, James Hetfield crooning away like some jacked up Winchester version of a lullaby. It's almost eight, and the Arizona border's still 500 miles away. Dean pulls back onto the highway and drives.

If Sam were here he'd tell Dean to slow down, get some rest, pull over and find a motel. Sam's not here though, so Dean just keeps driving till he hits the border and then drives some more. Drives till his eyes feel gritty with exhaustion and there are dark flickers at the corners of his vision and the sun starts to peek over the horizon, cool and pale and watery. He drives long enough that the only things that seem real anymore are the leather of the steering wheel under his hands and the smooth black expanse of the highway stretching out in front of him like a river.

When he's finally so tired he's pretty sure it's not safe for him to be on the road anymore he pulls off and finds a small dingy roadside diner. It's just past one in the afternoon now and he's running on nearly 48 hours of no sleep. The pretty blonde waitress flirts with him as she takes his order and he gives her a small smile and nothing else. He orders the biggest sugariest pile of pancakes on the menu, with whip cream and sprinkles on top and a black coffee. He's not very hungry but he figures he should take advantage of the fact that Sam isn't here to bitch about him about his arteries or whatever. You only live once as they say, why not enjoy yourself in the mean time.

When the pancakes come he gets three bites in and then feels like he's going to throw up. He shoves the plate away, draining the last of the coffee and throwing a wad of bills on the table without counting. Pushing himself slowly to his feet he heads out to the car, not looking back when the pretty waitress calls out a goodbye. He can almost hear Sam's lecturing in his ear, Dean, you know you can't survive on shitty coffee and no sleep forever, you gotta eat something and even in Dean's head Sam still sounds as maternal and irritatingly concerned as ever. Dean snorts, if Sam actually gave a shit about Dean then he would have stayed, wouldn't have abandoned him like this. He shakes off the thought as soon as he thinks it, guilt rising in his throat like sugar-sweet pancakes. That's not fair to Sam; it's just the sleep deprivation talking.

He sighs, reaching down to fit the keys into the ignition and he turns to the passenger seat and there's such an emptiness there it takes away his breath for a moment, the wrongness of it all. He can almost see a hazy image of Sam sitting there, burned like an after-image into his eyes, faint smile on his lips and his elbow on the window sill, hazy and ragged around edges but so real for a moment Dean almost reaches out to touch him. He blinks and when he opens his eyes again it's gone. Which makes sense, because Sam's a state away in Palo Alto. He shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes. Maybe he really should get some sleep, last thing he needs right now is hallucinations fucking with his head.

The town he's heading for, Ash Fork, is still a couple of hundred miles away. It's located on the edge of the Cocino National Forest somewhere between butt-fuck nowhere and no one cares, a few hours north of Phoenix. Fishing a road map out of the glove box he traces the spidery lines of the highway eastwards. He should be able to make it to Ash Fork before nightfall if he drives fast and doesn't stop to piss.

As it turns out he doesn't make it there before nightfall. An hour and a half in he nearly runs himself off the road when he nods off at the wheel, jerking himself awake when the Impala's tires hit gravel. Yanking the wheel straight again he's forced to admit he's liable to get himself or someone else killed if he keeps going, which is really not how he wants to go out. Conceding defeat he get off at the next highway exit. He needs to buy some more of those caffeine pills he used to down like tic-tac's back when he was riding solo while Sam was off at college. A few minutes off the interstate a flickering sign advertises the "Sunset Hill Motel" and Dean turns the Impala into the mostly empty parking lot, throwing the car into park and grabbing his bag out of the trunk.

When the bored looking woman checking him in asks double or single he replies before he even has time to think about it, exhausted brain on autopilot.

"Double, please."

He doesn't even realize what he's done until he unlocks the door and throws his duffel on the floor and sees the second bed staring at him from across the room, and then it feels like someone punched him in the stomach. He turns and runs and tells himself he's not running even as he finds the nearest bar and orders beer after beer and tries to forget the reason he's here. He hustles some dumb hicks at pool, makes a bit of cash and gets the hell out of dodge when it looks like the dumb hicks are starting to catch on to his game. He doesn't want to go back to that motel room, doesn't want to face the emptiness he's going to find. There's nowhere else for him to go, though.

He collapses into bed as soon he gets back, barely even bothering to take off his boots and jeans before he wriggle under the covers. As exhausted as he is though, he can't fall asleep. It's too quiet, he thinks, without Sam. You don't realize how loud silence can be until you're alone. It's the little things, the soft click of fingers against a keyboard, the shuffle of feet over carpet, the quiet sound of someone else's breathing. All the little things Dean used to complain about, now he aches to hear them. And ain't that a bitch.

He thinks this is what he was avoiding, the muted finality of a dark motel room and an empty bed. The quiet is oppressive, suffocating. It settles over him like a too heavy blanket and the shadows in the corners of the room seem to scream you are alone again and you will be alone forever because everyone leaves you in the end. Finally after he lies sleepless for an hour he gets up and switches on the TV, sets the volume on low; just to hear something other then the sound of his own heart in his ears. The screen casts a soft neon glow across the still room, chases away the dark just a little bit. That night Dean falls asleep to the sound of static and America's Deadliest Catch.

* * *

AN: whenever my family used to go on road trips and stay in motels we always watched america's deadliest catch, I don't know why but me and my little brother were obsessed with it. my mom didn't really let us watch tv at home but road trips were the exception and we always got so excited about it. for a show with the world 'deadliest' in the title, it was weirdly relaxing.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean dreams. He's in the back of the Impala he thinks, which is weird because he hasn't rode in the back since he turned 15 and John decided it was time for him to start pulling his weight driving between jobs, and it's dark outside. He can't make out who's in the front seat, but he can see they're worried by the way they keep turning back to look at him. He wants to tell them to keep their eyes on the road but he finds his lips are glued shut, and he can't move his limbs. Somebody- Sam, some part of his brain that's still working supplies- is calling his name, loud and insistent and worried.

"Dean. Dean! Wake up!"

He starts awake with a jolt, like somebody's poured a bucket of cold water down the back of his shirt, heart hammering away in his chest. Taking a deep panting breath he realizes the knife he always keeps tucked under his pillow when he sleeps is in his hand. The TV's still going in the background, playing some dumb infomercial. He glances over at the clock, it's barely five o'clock in the morning and the room is dim and grey. Groaning he carefully uncurls his fingers from the handle of the knife and tosses it onto the bedside table, scrubbing at his face with his hands. If it's even possible he feels more exhausted then when he fell asleep, eyes gritty and tender, and his body feels like it weighs ten times more then it should.

He considers trying to go back to sleep but he has a feeling that's a lost cause; especially after that dream, whatever the hell that was. Instead he rolls out of bed, and pulls on the clothes he left discarded on the floor yesterday. The motel room has one of those shitty little coffeemakers in the tiny kitchenette so he makes himself a cup with the cheap off-brand coffee provided. It's bitter and dark and tastes like crap but he swallows it down anyways.

The nice thing about never unpacking, he thinks as he heads out the door, is that you never have to bother with repacking when you leave. There's something a little sad about that he knows, an irony he can't quite put the words too, but he doesn't let himself linger on it. It's better not too linger, he's learned that the hard way. The longer you stay, the easier it is to get attached, to settle in. And that only leads to heartbreak in the end. No, it's better to keep moving, better to never unpack.

The hunt in Ash Fork goes, well, it goes less then perfect. It's not that Dean hasn't worked solo hunts before, hell in the two years after Sam left for Stanford he'd worked dozens, but it's been so long. He'd gotten complacent, forgotten what it's like to not have someone watching your six and that came back and bit him in the ass. Or in this case sank five wickedly sharp claws into his ribcage. He's lucky the skinwalker didn't use its teeth or he might be in real trouble right now. Still, in the end Dean had put a silver bullet right between the things eyes and burned it's bones to ash so it could have gone worse. Things can always go worse.

He's in a shitty mood as he shoves open the door to his motel room. His favorite t-shirt is ruined, he got blood all over the seat of the Impala, and his hair smells like lighter fluid, which always sticks around for days no matter how many times he washes it. All in all it's been a pretty crap way to restart his solo career. As he throws his pack on desk his phone rings, startling out of him his pity party, and he fishes it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID. It's Sam. Because of course it is. His little brother always did have expert timing. He flips the cell open and presses it to his ear, pulling his Colt out of the back of his jeans and setting it on the desk.

"Hey Dean, it's me."

Sam says, as if Dean wouldn't recognize his voice anywhere. Wouldn't recognize it at the end of the world.

"Hey Sammy, what's up?"

He asks, wincing a little as he sloughs off his jacket and flannel. They fall to the floor in a heap and he kicks them aside to deal with later.

"Just checking in like I said I would. How's that hunt down in Arizona going?"

"Just finished it up actually, turned out to be a skinwalker after all."

Sam swallows a little, and his voice is almost cautious when he replies.

"How'd it go? You okay?"

Dean snorts, glancing down at the claw marks raked across his ribs and pulling the wet fabric of his shirt away from cuts. The bleeding's slowed down to a sluggish trickle now, not the bright red of fresh blood anymore. It still stings like a bitch but Dean's had worse. And sure he can't sleep without the sound of a TV in the background and he hears Sam's voice in places he isn't and there's a hole in his chest where his heart used to be but he'll be alright. He'll manage. He always does. No matter how bad things get Dean Winchester just keeps going. He hasn't decided if it's a blessing or a curse yet. Closing his eyes he takes a deep breath, tries to keep his voice steady.

"Of course I am, dumbass. Put that furry bastard down quick and easy, good ol' Lassie won't be bothering anyone anymore. "

He can almost hear Sam roll his eyes across the phone line, but the relief in his tone is palpable and that's enough for Dean.

"Alright, alright, sorry I asked."

He says, laughing a little and Dean smiles at the sound. It feels like ages since he heard it.

"So, how things going with you over there in sunny California?"

He asks, trying to point the business end of this conversation away from him.

"It's going good, real good actually. One of my buddies, Mike, stuck around in Palo Alto and he's letting me crash on his couch until I can find a place of my own."

Dean wanders over to the bed, grabbing the half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the table on his way, and falls back onto the mattress. Taking a swig he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

"What about Stanford? They letting you back in?"

"I think so. I have another interview with admissions on Tuesday and things are looking pretty good. Might even be able to get back some of my financial aid."

Dean almost laughs then, at how ridiculous this is. He's sitting here with his own blood soaking into his jeans, fresh off putting a bullet in the head of something that by all rights shouldn't exist, and Sam's talking about financial aid. Maybe they really are too different; maybe it was stupid to ever believe they could have made this work.

"Hey, Dean, you still there?"

Sam's voice brings him back to the present and he shakes his head.

"Uh yeah, sorry. Just thinking."

"Well, don't. You might hurt yourself."

Sam says, teasingly. It's a lighthearted joke, and they've both said far worse to each other, but for some reason this one stings more then most.

"Someone's gotta to do it now that you're gone."

Dean replies, a little defensive, but the words hang heavy with intent between them and as soon as they leave his mouth he wishes he could take them back. He hadn't meant it like that. There's a long moment where Dean hears nothing but the crackle of the phone line before Sam starts, voice sad.

"Dean-"

Dean cuts him off though, because he doesn't want to talk about this right now. Or ever really. What's done is done and there's no point in rehashing the same thing over and over.

"So, got with any hot college chicks yet?" Sam sighs, and Dean can tell he's not happy but he just barrels on, "You know, I bet they dig the nerdy bad boy vibe over there in geekland."

Reluctantly Sam relinquishes the moment, informing Dean that he hadn't 'got with any hot college chicks yet'. His voice is a little strained and Dean remembers Jess, remembers fire and blood and the smell of burning flesh. He changes the subject. They chat for a few more minutes but eventually the conversation awkwardly peters off, the quiet moments in between growing longer and longer.

"Well, this has been fun Sammy but I saw a cute waitress giving me eyes earlier, so I really gotta go. Duty calls you know."

Dean says, forcing himself to sound properly lecherous. There isn't a cute waitress, of course, but Sam doesn't need to know that. His brother snorts,

"I think you might be mistaking attraction for morbid fascination Dean."

"Ha-ha, hilarious Sammy." He grumbles, but the familiar ribbing warms something in him. "And no, I'm not mistaking anything thank you very much. I know women, alright, and I know that look; she wanted a piece of me."

"Okay, sure, whatever you say casanova. Anyways, sounds like you have…important things to do. Call again in a few days?"

Dean nods, swallowing. It's pathetic, he knows, but he doesn't want to let this end. Once Sam hangs up it'll just be him and the emptiness again, the quiet air that's slowly starting to drive Dean insane. But if there's one thing the world has beaten into him it's that everything has to end so Dean forces himself to smile, a big brother to the bitter finish.

"Yeah, sounds good."

He doesn't hang up though, waits for Sam to do it because pathetic as it may be he can't bring himself to sever the connection between the two of them as tenuous and fragile as it is. So he waits, and wonders how many times he can cut this part of himself out before there's nothing left.

"And Dean, just…be careful out there? Alright?"

There's a funny sarcastic response just waiting on the tip of his tongue, ready to deflect and defend any trace of emotional vulnerability, because he's Dean Fucking Winchester and he's allergic to chick flick moments, but he listens to Sam's voice, really listens, and he can tell he means it. Can tell he's afraid.

"Okay Sam," He replies quietly, swallowing the joke, "I will."

And then the line clicks and Dean's left with nothing but static and an ache in his lungs that steals his breath away for a second. The dull throbbing pain in his chest brings him back to the moment and he sighs. Flipping his cell phone shut he tosses it down on the bed beside him and takes another long pull from his bottle of whiskey.

Moving a little slow he pushes himself to his feet and roots around in his bags for the first-aid kit, which is really just a extra large ziplock bag filled with whatever Dean thinks he'll need to patch himself up at the end of a hunt. Pulling it open he fishes out a needle and some surgical suture and sets it on the table. Then comes the unpleasant task of taking his shirt off so he can actually get at the cuts. Loose cotton threads from the tears in his tee have stuck themselves to the edges of the wounds and they tug uncomfortably as Dean peels the ruined shirt off, clotted blood starting to seep once again at the disturbance. Once he has the shirt off he balls it up and tosses it into the trash for housekeeping to deal with, wonders what stories they'll make up about him after he's gone.

Next up is the very unpleasant part though, the one he's really not been looking forward too. He takes a last generous swig out of the bottle, grits his teeth, and then pours the whiskey over the ragged gashes in his chest. It burns like Dean imagines holy water burns a demon, fierce and blinding and insistent. He breathes deeply through his nose, eyes shut and bottom lip caught between his teeth so he doesn't cry out, and rides out the pain.

Eventually the burning fades enough that Dean can focus on wiping away the worst of the blood and dirt with a clean cotton pad. Another swig for safety and then it's just a simple matter of stitching up the cuts. It's a little depressing how good he's gotten at it, if he's honest with himself. He could probably work as a nurse or something as a back up career if he ever decides to quit hunting with the amount of time he's spent sewing up himself, or his brother, or his dad. None of the cuts are particularly bad luckily, the longest one only takes five stitches to close up and Dean finishes quick and neat.

After he cleans up the mess left behind by his rudimentary first aid he heads to the bathroom, and hops in the shower. Turning the shower handle as hot as it'll go he leans his forehead against the smooth plasticky wall and watches as water runs pink down the drain.

He has the same dream again that night. It's the third time since he first had it in that motel room just across the border of Arizona. He wakes up the same way too, heart pounding in his chest and his brother's voice echoing in his ear and he's starting to wonder if being on his own really is making him a little crazy. Still, it's just a dream, and dreams can't hurt you so he brushes it off and keeps the knife tucked under his pillow.

Sam doesn't call for a while, which Dean understands. They text a bit, but neither of them are reliable at replying and sometimes they go days without a word exchanged. He's probably busy with school now that Stanford's readmitted him, and finding an apartment and a job and all that normal people crap. Dean gets it, and it's not like he's just sitting around waiting for the phone to ring or anything, he's got his own stuff going on. He finishes two more hunts before Sam calls again, both of which go better then the first. Guess it is just like riding a bike after all.

When Sam finally does call Dean's just off the end of a successful salt and burn up in Wyoming, riding on the high of adrenaline and satisfaction that always follows a clean hunt.

"Sammy!" He answers, bright and jubilant. "What's up?"

"Just checking in," Sam replies, and Dean can hear a note of amusement in his voice. "You sound like you're in a good mood."

"Hell yeah, I'm fucking awesome man! You shoulda seen meman, I was on fire, no pun intended."

Sam snorts,

"Woah there, don't break your arm patting yourself on the back."

His tone is affectionate, so Dean lets it slide. They talk for bit, about the hunt, about Sam's apartment hunt (he's narrowed it down to two places now), about school. It's different this time, though. Sure Sam listens too him and hums in agreement in all the right places but he seems distracted almost, like he's not quite all there.

And this is the beginning of the end, Dean knows. This is how it starts. Sam is slipping between his fingers like so much dust, and he knew this would happen but it still doesn't prepare him for how much it hurts. And it's not like Sam is doing this on purpose, he's not cruel like that, it's just how things are. You move on, let go, forget. It's the natural order of the world.

"Well," he says finally, flat and numb. "I guess I'll let you go."

Somebody says something in the background that he can't quite make out, and Sam laughs in a way Dean's pretty sure he doesn't remember ever hearing from him before.

"One second dude, just gotta finish up this call." He says, voice muffled like he's holding the phone away from his mouth. And then, to Dean again, "Hey, talk to you later alright?"

Dean swallows past the lump in his throat.

"Yeah, talk to you later Sammy."

As soon as Sam hangs up Dean pulls his arm back and throws his phone across the room as hard as he can. It clatters against the wall and falls to the ground, bouncing lamely across the puke-colored carpet. He sits there, fists clenched at his sides and breath coming sharp and ragged in his throat; full of something he can't understand. A bitter potent mixture of anger and grief and yes, jealousy, bubbles its way to the surface. It rages inside of him, and his hands are shaking at his sides and he feels like if he doesn't do something he might shake himself apart. Because Sam seems content in his new life and Dean's glad for that he really truly is, but god it just isn't fair. It isn't fair that Dean's sitting here alone in an ugly motel with still healing claw marks on his side and Sam's laughing it up with his friends in Palo Alto. Because sure maybe Dean didn't want to go to college, or settle down, or get out of the life, but he also never really got the chance to decide that for himself. And once Sam did, well, that pretty much sealed Dean's fate. Because Sam, well Sam always knew what he wanted. Not once has anyone ever asked Dean. So it isn't fair, and there isn't a damn thing he can do about it.

Something in him breaks, then, some part of him gives in to the anger. An arm lashes out, sweeping the littered tabletop clean. Papers and library books and his laptop go flying, a half empty whiskey bottle shattering on the carpet. It's not enough though, he still needs more. Standing up so fast his chair clatters back he reaches under and heaves, flipping the table over on its side with a crack. Then go the rickety chairs as he sends them sailing across the room and watches them splinter on the walls with a grim satisfaction.

It feels good, the destruction and the anger and so he lets it take him and drag him under, doesn't try to fight it anymore. He yanks the bedside lamp out of the wall, smashing the cheap porcelain base to pieces and warping the pastel shade out of shape. Next are the pillows, thin cotton tearing under his fingers as feathers rain down around his head. The sheets and comforter join the shattered lamp on the floor, spilled whiskey already soaking into the fabric.

By the end he stands panting in the midst of destruction, and the room looks a bit like a hurricane's torn across it. His boots crunch on broken glass as he picks his way through the wreckage, righting a chair that had survived his rampage and sinking into it. As he looks around at what his rage has wrought he doesn't feel so good anymore, just tired. Tired in a way that aches down to his bones, tired in a way he's not so sure he can come back from.

It's just that he's spent so long fighting for things, for Dad, for Sam, for family, and now there's nothing left to fight for any more and Dean was never prepared to live through that. He guesses a little part of him thought if Dad and Sam were both gone, well, he'd probably already be dead and buried. But he's still breathing and Sam's still gone and there isn't anything he can do to change that.

The thing is, before there was always a future to fight towards, always hope that maybe someday... This is final though, Sam is gone and nothing Dean can do will bring him back. If he was dead Dean would find some way to raise him, heaven and hell be damned, but you can't find something that doesn't want to be found. You can't bring back someone who wants to stay gone.

That night he packs up and leaves Green River Wyoming without looking back, makes the seven-hour drive up to Bobby's place in South Dakota. By the time he gets there the suns just breaking over the horizon and god, Dean's pretty sure he's never been this worn out in his life.

If Bobby's surprised to see Dean when he opens up the door it doesn't show on his face. He just raises his eyebrows a little, face deadpan as ever.

"Well, you look like crap Dean."

"Yeah, good morning to you too."

He snipes back as he pushes past Bobby without waiting for an invitation. He's never needed one here yet. Bobby rolls his eyes but pulls the door shut behind him.

"Where's Sam?"

He asks, and the unsaid question there is did you show up on my doorstep at the asscrack of dawn because you and your damn fool brother did something stupid again? Which is a fair question to ask considering the number of times it's happened. Dean just shrugs.

"Sam's... um, Sam's gone. Went back to Stanford."

He mumbles, running a hand down his face and he's proud to hear that his voice doesn't waver. The creases soften out of Bobby's face; soften into something that looks more like pity. Or understanding, maybe. Dean waits for the questions to come, but Bobby just looks at him with kind eyes and for some reason it makes Dean want to cry.

"Why don't you go get some rest, Dean. You look like you've been driving all night."

Dean nods; grateful for the offer, grateful Bobby didn't push. He feels all strung out, shaky and dazed and weepy as a teenage girl. It's a little bit like the first time he smoked weed behind the bleachers of a middle school in Kentucky that he can't remember the name of anymore, when his head didn't feel connected to his body anymore and he was worried he might just float away into the clouds if someone didn't hold him down. Hitching his duffel higher onto his shoulder he blearily turns away, stumbling half-blind with exhaustion up the stairs and he feels Bobby's gaze burning into his back all the way to the top.

Bobby's guest bedroom is small and cramped and stuffy. There's just enough space for the bed shoved in the corner and a small worn dresser and desk. Every other available flat surface is covered in teetering piles of books, which is par for the course in Bobby's house. Throwing his bag onto the dresser he wanders over to the bed and sinks down onto the mattress, one hand smoothing over the slightly threadbare quilt. A pang of nostalgia rises in his chest. He and Sam had spent more then a few nights crammed together in this bed when they'd visited Bobby as kids, and then when Sam got too big for the two of them to fit properly Sam in the bed by himself and Dean in a sleeping bag on the floor beside him. The dusty air still tastes faintly of summer heat and sweat and a simpler time when the future was still glistening in front of them in silver and gold. That's all gone now though, dead and buried with their parents and the two boys who used to sleep in this bed. All that's left is him.

He swallows past the lump in his throat. Pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his stinging eyes shut. The past is the past, and it does no good to dredge it up. Not now.

He can't remember the last time he slept in a real bed and not on one of the lumpy excuses for mattresses every motel seems to have to offer, he thinks as he pulls off his boots. It feels almost too soft, like he might sink right into it if he's not careful. He doesn't fit in it as well as he used too either, feet almost hanging over the edge when he stretches out his full length. Funny how things change as you get older, funny the things you outgrow. Rolling onto his side he tucks one of the pillows under his neck, not bothering to pull the covers up or get undressed. As soon as he closes his eyes he's asleep, and this time he doesn't dream.

When he wakes up it's gentle and quiet and his brother's voice does not echo in his ears. Evening light streams through the small high window and dyes the floor of the room a soft gold and there's the faint smell of charcoal and grilled meat floating from somewhere. He blinks a little, slowly sitting up and rubbing at the sleep in his eyes. He feels… better actually. Still tired, but not in that aching hopeless way anymore. There's a muffled clatter as Bobby moves around downstairs and the smell of something grilling grows stronger. As if on cue his stomach growls loudly, reminding him that he hasn't eaten anything real in longer then he can remember.

Pulling his boots back on again he stands and makes his way down the stairs. The living room is empty but the front door's propped open and Dean follows the scent of food out into the yard. It's warm out, and there's a comfortable breeze blowing over the scrapyard, kicking up little puffs of dust as it goes. Bobby's standing by a beat up old grill, beer in one hand and flipping burgers with the other. He glances over when Dean emerges from the house, gestures to the blue and white cooler sitting on the porch.

"Help yourself."

He calls out, turning back to the sizzling patties and bacon on the grill. Dean leans over, pulls open the cooler and fishes out a bottle of beer. The glass is cool in his hand, slightly damp from the melting ice in the bottom of the box and he wipes it dry on his jeans before popping the cap off. Taking a sip he ambles down the steps of the porch and over to Bobby.

"Have a good nap?"

Bobby asks, not looking up as he neatly flips a burger.

"Slept like a baby."

Dean quips with a smirk. Bobby snorts,

"Oh I'm sure. You were snoring loud enough to raise the dead, I was worried you were gonna bring the whole house down on our ears."

"You know you love me."

Dean says, as he reaches forward to snag one of the bacon strips, popping it in his mouth.

"Hey, hands off, they're not ready. Now go make yourself useful and grab the buns from inside you idjit."

Dean deftly avoids the whack Bobby aims at him with the greasy spatula, and heads for the kitchen, laughing a little.

They eat out on the porch, facing west towards the setting sun. The beer's a little lukewarm by now but Dean doesn't mind so much. They chat at first. Bobby's restoring a beautiful old 1974 Plymouth Barracuda somebody had brought in to be junked, and Dean promises to lend a hand. Eventually though the conversation fades away and they sit in a comfortable silence, drinking and watching the slowly sinking sun.

"So, you ever thought about it?"

Bobby asks finally, casually. Dean glances over, confused.

"Thought about what?"

Bobby shrugs.

"Y'know, gettin' out."

"What, you mean quitting hunting?"

When Bobby just looks at him Dean snorts, shaking his head and taking a sip of his beer.

"Nah, I mean come on Bobby, can you really see me settling down? Working a nine to five, paying bills and shit? It's just-nah, man."

"Why not Dean?" Bobby presses, and Dean shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "What's so wrong with that?"

Dean takes another drink, avoids Bobby's gaze.

"Nothing's wrong with it, it's just not in me, alright. I can't do all that. Maybe the thought of a law degree and a white picket fence is what gets Sam going but not me. Hunting… hunting's the only life I got, y'know? It's all I've ever known."

That's not exactly true, if Dean's honest. There were days, days a long time ago, when the future didn't look like this. When Dean had dreams that didn't include ganking monsters for the rest of his life, when maybe he didn't think about white picket fences and college degrees but of a family maybe. Something of his own someday. Those days are long gone though.

"Look, a friend of mine, Garret, has an auto-shop over in Rapid City. He's always looking for extra hands and he'd treat you right."

Bobby's saying. Dean shakes his head though, fingers tightening around the neck of his beer bottle.

"I appreciate the offer but I told you I'm not interested, end of discussion."

"Dean, come on-"

"Enough Bobby!"

Dean nearly shouts, sitting up in his chair now. The words cut through the quiet peaceful air of the scrap yard and linger between them. Bobby looks at him, almost surprised and maybe a little hurt and suddenly Dean feels like a giant douchebag because this is Bobby, Bobby who's only ever tried to help and who's saved their asses more times then he can count. Bobby who always took care of them like his own when John left his kids at the house to go on a hunt, who had wiped the sweat off of Dean's forehead and held his head while he puked when he'd gotten real sick at eight and his dad had been too scared to take him to a hospital. Bobby who hadn't asked a damn question when Dean had shown up out of the blue at his house at six in the morning looking like road-kill and missing a brother, just let him in and told him to rest. He swallows, leaning back and wipes a hand down his face.

"I'm sorry." He starts again, calmer this time. "But I can't, Bobby. I just can't."

Bobby sighs, and suddenly looks very old and a little sad.

"It's alright son, it's alright."

And god, Dean wishes he could believe him.

* * *

AN: "I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world."  
― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles


	4. Chapter 4

Dean stays at Bobby's a few more days after that. It's nice. He works on the old Barracuda sitting out front, and for dinner they sit on the porch and eat burgers and drink beer. Bobby even makes his famous cornbread once. Every night Dean goes to sleep in the bed he and Sam used to share. Bobby doesn't bring up his friend Garret's garage again and Dean's grateful for it, even if he catches Bobby watching him sometimes with that same sad look on his face. It's nice, and for the first time since Sammy left he feels something close to peace. It's easy sometimes to imagine just staying here, when he's out in the yard elbow deep in engine grease and oil and the sun's warm on his skin and he can hear Bobby clattering around inside the house. It's nice, but Dean's never been very good at holding onto nice.

There's an odd yearning that rises in him whenever he stays in one place too long, some part of him that still itches for the road. Long as he's lived he's never understood it but he follows it just the same, like a blind man following the sound of water and only hoping it doesn't drown him someday. So, on the fifth day at Bobby's he packs his bag up and says his goodbyes. Bobby tries to convince him to stay a little longer, but there's something to his voice that tells Dean he already knows it won't work. They eat breakfast in Bobby's worn comfortable kitchen with pale weak morning light streaming in through the windows. Bobby makes pancakes. They're out of a box but Dean doesn't mind. He drenches them in syrup and Reddi-Wip, helps himself to seconds. Bobby watches him with a touch of affection in his eyes and grouses about how he's making a mess of his kitchen. Dean just grins at him through a mouth of whip cream and takes a big bite.

"Now don't go bein' a stranger."

Bobby says as Dean stands at the door, bag slung over his shoulder and keys dangling in his hand.

"I won't Bobby, cross my heart." He pauses, sheepishly running a hand over the back of his head. "And… thanks for letting me stay for a couple of days. Think I needed to get my head on straight again."

Bobby just nods, folding his arms over his chest and smiling faintly.

"Of course. You know my door is always open to you boys, even if it is godawful early in the morning."

Dean snorts.

"Sorry about that. I'll try and call ahead or something next time so I don't disturb your beauty sleep."

Bobby snorts right back, but it's fond. There's an awkward moment then, Dean standing stiff with the strap of his duffel digging into his shoulder and a goodbye hovering on the tip of his tongue that he can't quite bring himself to say. Finally Bobby rolls his eyes, reaches out and pulls Dean in for a hug, and Dean lets him. His beard presses scratchy into the side of Dean's face and he smells like motor oil and sweat and dusty old books, smells like the closest thing to home Dean's had in his life and god it's been so long since someone hugged Dean like this. It's been so long since someone just held him.

"You take care of yourself out there boy, you hear me?"

Bobby says, and it rumbles against Dean's chest. Dean nods, closing his eyes and holding on tight.

"Yeah Bobby, I will."

Finally Bobby pulls away and Dean clears his throat, running a quick hand under his eyes.

"Well, I better get going."

He says, voice a little gritty. Bobby nods, follows Dean out the backdoor and watches as he pops open the trunk of the Impala and tosses his bag in. Bobby leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. When everything's packed away he pauses, door halfway open, poised between the staying and the going, between past and present and future.

"I'll see you around."

He says, soft and quiet. Bobby nods, brim of his baseball cap pulled low over his face to block the rising sun.

"You're allowed to be happy Dean, you know that right?"

Dean thinks about that for a second, tries to imagine what happy looks like. It comes easy. It looks like this: him and Sam, fresh off a hunt; a little bruised a little battered, but safe. They drive down some no name backwater road and pull off on the shoulder. Dean brought beer and they lean up against the front of the Impala, hood warm through their jeans and there's a slight breeze blowing from the south. He passes Sam a bottle, tosses the caps into the brush at the side of the road and takes a long sip. They don't talk, but they don't have too. In front of them wheat sways golden and endless under the sun.

That's not an option anymore though, so he guesses he just has to set aside he wants most in the world and figure out what he wants second most. He's still working on that last bit. He bows his head, one hand still wrapped around the door to the Impala. He doesn't look back.

"Yeah Bobby. I know that."

As he turns the keys in the ignition and drives down the road he thinks that he's not lying, because he does know he's allowed to be happy, it's just that most days he doesn't know _how_ to be happy (that's a lie, he knows how). But the problem is that he wants Sam to be happy too, and somewhere along the line their happiness became mutually exclusive. Guess he'll have to try and figure that out on his own.

Bobby gets smaller and smaller in his mirror, half obscured by the cloud of dirt the Impala kicks up, and Dean sometimes feel like he's spent his whole life watching people disappear in his rearview. Cassie, Sam, Bobby, he leaves them all in the dust one by one. Carves out a little piece of himself to leave behind in their hands each time, and now he's riddled with holes and nothing to fill them with.

He goes to the Grand Canyon. It takes him three days to drive there from Bobby's; it should really only have been a day and a half trip but he takes it slow. Stops at a motel every night and eats a real dinner, doesn't drink more then a beer or two before he goes to sleep. When the waitresses' smile at him he smiles back and it doesn't hurt so much around the edges anymore to do it. There's a strange feeling in his chest, like he's all hollowed out inside and he can't tell if it's a good thing or not. It's different though, different from the heavy cloud that's been hanging on him like a ten ton weight since the day that Sam left.

It's not quite spring yet, tourist season hasn't started, and as Dean guides the Impala up the twisting roads to the west rim he doesn't pass a single car. By the time he makes it to the top it's barely half past six, faint light still rising in the east. He parks in a vast empty parking and gets out, grabbing the six pack he bought at a gas station when he left Bitter Springs that morning. At the edge of the lot there's a sign hammered into hard-packed ground and he follows the arrow that points left to a look out point. His boots kick up little clouds of dust as he walks; dry despite the fact that it rained last night. The air carries an early morning cool, crisp and clean and damp, tinged with the faint smell of pine and creosote and Dean breathes deep, lets it sting at the inside of his nose.

The walk is a short one, and the small scraggly trees and shrubs soon fade away to burnt orange dirt and rocks, speckled with the dusty grey green of whatever can push it's way up between the cracks. In front of him stretches the limitless expanse of the canyon, sweeping and endless and lonely. He picks his way down off of the path, pebbles sliding dangerously under his feet, until he finds a big boulder with a flattish top a few feet from the edge and sets himself down on it. Snagging a beer he tucks the six pack next to his feet, twists the lid off and throws the cap over the rim of the canyon, listens as the faint rattles of it bouncing it's way down the cliff slowly fade away. It's silent except for the sound of his breathing and the wind and somewhere far off the soft harmonies of a bird singing.

There's something solitary to the view, just the bright clear blue of the sky and the orange rock of Arizona desert as far as the eye can see, something that aches in Dean's chest. Looking out over the canyon's edge into the gorge, the Colorado River nothing but a glimmering navy ribbon at the bottom, Dean feels very small.

It's not exactly beautiful, because beautiful is a word used for things like flowers and women and vintage cars. But it's beautiful in the way that people are beautiful, all jagged edges and hidden crevices and dark shadows. Beautiful in the way that wild things are. It makes his throat tighten.

It's funny, he's been wanting to come here his whole life, or at least ever since he read about it in a dumb guide book he'd found abandoned in the bottom drawer of a motel room in Oregon, left behind by some careless previous occupant. Dad had been on a hunting trip and Sammy had been conked out watching television and Dean had been so bored he'd though he might explode with it. First he'd imagined a family road trip, him and Sam and John all together and they'd go camping and cook hotdogs over a fire and then when the fire burned down to embers maybe they'd roast marshmallow's and make smores or whatever normal families did. Later, after that dream had fizzled and died in the dirt, he'd imagined him and Sammy and beers drank leaning against the Impala. Now he's finally here though, and he's not sure how to feel.

Maybe it's because he's built his whole life around doing things for other people and now he's finally doing something for himself. Ever since he was a kid he was defined by his use; brother, savior, soldier, weapon. But now dad's dead and Sam's left and there's no one to take care of anymore, no one to fight for. Everything and everyone he used to shape what he was is gone, and Dean realizes now he's not sure who he is anymore without them. He's a negative space, defined by all the things around him. He never bothered spending much time trying to figure it out, there were always monsters to fight and people to save and little brothers to take care of and he'd thought that was enough. Maybe it's time to get to know himself a little better.

Dean drinks his beer and watches the sun rise over the Grand Canyon, and where the light touches the cliffs on the far side it sets them ablaze in red and gold and glory.

He should have known everything was going to go down the toilet after that, because life can't just go good for Dean Winchester. Every time things start to look up the universe just has to come around and beat him back down again, remind him of the truth of it; that the world is a hard and ugly place and it will always be a hard and ugly place, no matter how far he tries to run from it. There are some things Dean just isn't built for, and maybe peace is one of them.

His boots crunch in the inch or so of snow that's settled on the ground, dry and powdery. It had started snowing maybe half an hour ago, small little flakes that dusted everything in white and muffled the sounds of the forest like cotton stuffed in his ears. He's cold, too, wishes he'd brought a heavier layer. Or gloves at least. Gloves would have been nice. The only warm thing about him is the blood dripping from his thigh, sliding it's way down his leg and into his shoe, soaking into his sock. He feels his foot squelch with every step he takes and manages to musters up a vague irritation at it. It's stopped hurting a while back at least, which Dean knows is theoretically a bad thing but he can't really bring himself to be to upset about at the moment. The torn off strip of his flannel he'd tied above the ragged mess that used to be his thigh as a make-shift tourniquet is sodden and useless now. At least his stomach stopped bleeding a little while ago, small mercies he guesses.

He pauses for a second, leaning against a nearby tree and trying to catch his breath. He's pretty sure he's headed towards the road but the forest all looks the same around him and he can't see the stars anymore. He's so tired, now, so very tired. It feels like he's been walking for ages and all he wants to do is sleep. His eyelids start to flutter closes but he bites his lip till he tastes blood and lets the pain bring him back to reality. No rest for the weary, after all. Or was it the wicked? He can't remember anymore.

Pushing himself upright he takes another dragging step in the direction of what he hopes is civilization. If he sits down now he won't be getting back up, he knows that for sure, and he'll be damned if he dies at the hands (or teeth) of some fugly-ass Yeti in the middle of some forest in the ass-end nowhere of Wisconsin. He doesn't want to bite the dust in fucking Wisconsin.

One step after another, one foot in front of the other. The whole world narrows down to the simple rhythm of his heart thumping away in his chest and his feet in front of him. Left-right, one-two, ever forwards no matter how slow. Because that's Dean for you, he keeps going when by all rights he should just lay down and die, just keeps walking with blood dripping down his leg into his sock and his guts trying to poke their way out of his stomach and a thigh that's basically mince meat at this point. He just keeps going.

There's only so much a body can take though, there's only so many steps that sheer force of will can get you. Eventually, all things end. Even Dean Winchester.

He feels his legs go a second before his knees hits the ground, and then it's just a matter of gravity; he topples forward, boneless and graceless and spent. The ground is cool against his cheek, pine needles and dirt pressing into his skin and there's a sharp rock that's digging into his shoulder and he wants to move but he can't. Snow still falls, gentle and light and Dean feels it melting against the heat of his body, flakes catching in the curves of his lashes and clouding his vision. A part of him wants to fight, wants to stand or crawl or scream or something. Another part of him just wants to lie there, let himself be covered by the snow. After all, all things end someday. Even this, even him.

He wonders what they'll say when they find him. Cougar got him, maybe. Shouldn't have been out after dark probably. They'll wait a few days and when nobody claims the body they'll bury him in some unmarked grave. Perhaps someone will take pity on him, run a few lines in the local paper for the poor, pretty, dead stranger. They won't even have a picture to put next to the name that isn't his. And that will be it; Dean Winchester will fade away like he never even existed, lost to the annals of history. Just another wandering soul that never made it home, just another tragedy no one will remember.

All those years of blood and sweat and heartache, all those people saved, and this is the reward he gets. Bleeding out into the dirt somewhere in Wisconsin. It seems like a pretty piss poor recompense. But maybe how this was how it always was going to end. Maybe it's destiny. After all, hunters don't get happy endings. It ends bloody, or it ends sad, and that's just the way it is. That's just the life.

He thinks of Sammy then, happy and healthy and safe somewhere far from here. He wonders what he's doing right now, sleeping probably. Or maybe he's up late writing a paper, studying for an exam. Maybe he's even got a girl over, some cute blonde California girl with tan skin and a white smile. He's probably not thinking of Dean. Doesn't realize he's never going to see his brother again. And that's how it should be. He wishes he could call him though, wishes he could say goodbye. He tried a while ago but there's no cell reception in this damn forest

Dean wonders if Sam will ever know what happened to him. If he'll call and when Dean doesn't answer he'll assume he's out on a hunt or got a new number. If he'll realize something's wrong when Dean doesn't call back. Maybe he'll try Bobby then, and when Bobby says he hasn't heard from Dean for a while he'll go looking. Maybe he'll even find the newspaper, read the fake name and he'll realize Dean is gone. Dean knows he'll shed a few tears. Dean wonders if he might even pray for him, standing in front of some unmarked gravestone.

He'll be okay, though, in the end. Dean knows that now, that Sam can survive all on his own in a way that Dean never could. He'll be broken up about it sure, Dean knows that Sam loves him, but he'll be okay. He'll move on, move forward with his life. The thought is comforting and Dean relaxes a little at it. Sammy will be all right, and that's what matters, it's what's always mattered.

He remembers the Impala, parked a few miles down the highway. They better treat her careful when they tow her, better not sell her for scrap or he'll haunt their goddamn asses. He hopes that she finds a good home somewhere. Someone who will give her the love and attention she deserves, order her custom parts and change her oil and watch out for that one window that always gets squeaky when the weather changes.

It's getting colder now, a numbness settling deep into his bones. He can't even feel the sluggish drip of blood anymore, can't feel much at all.

He thinks of the Grand Canyon. Of the warm dry Arizona heat, the way the air had smelled of dust and trees and the desert after rain. He'd die for Sam, he knows that like he knows his own name. Hell, he'd sell his very soul for him in a second, but to live without him? Some days that feels like the harder thing to do. He'd gotten close, though. He'd gotten so close to figuring it out, and isn't that the bitter tragedy of it all? Dean had gotten so goddamn close. But close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and Dean's neither of those things. He's a weapon, a blunt instrument that's only meant for one purpose, and it's a purpose he's fulfilled. Live by the sword and you'll die by it and all that crap.

The darkness, when it comes, is almost welcome.

He wakes to chaos and noise and a pain so great he thinks he might weep from it. The comfortable numbness of the forest has disappeared and now Dean feels acutely every single bruise and tear and wound he's collected, bright and sharp and so unrelenting for a moment he can think of nothing else. He vaguely registers the sound of sirens echoing in his ears and there are hands on his body, gentle but unyielding. Blinking blearily he's confronted with a white metal ceiling, and a man leaning into his field of vision with a pinched face and blue-gloved hands. _Ambulance,_ the part of his brain still working supplies after a second, _you're in an ambulance_.

The man's saying something, lips moving insistently but all Dean can hear is a faint low rumble, like a river from very far away. His eyes are just slipping closed again when another voice cuts through the white noise, sharp and loud and so close to Dean's ear he would jump if he were able.

_Dean._

Says his brother, so achingly familiar, so achingly desperate, and Dean feels tears well in his eyes unbidden at the sound. His head lolls to the side, searching for the source and there, his tall frame sitting cramped and bent beside Dean is Sam. His eyes are wide and glassy, throat working convulsively as he looks down at him.

There's a thousand things Dean should ask his brother, what are you doing here, how did you find me, but none of that seems important right now, in the face of Sam's worried hazel eyes. All that matters is that his brother is here, his brother found him. He's not alone anymore. His throat is dry and scratchy and when he speaks it's more of a rasp, hoarse and fragile in the antiseptic air of the ambulance.

"Sammy…"

Sam doesn't blink though, doesn't seem like he's heard Dean at all.

"Dean." He says again, and there's a strange echoing quality to his voice, somehow muted and distant even though he's sitting only a foot away from Dean "Dean, you have to wake up."

"Sammy," he croaks, and every word costs him now in blood. "Sammy it's going to be alright."

Sam stares down at him, still so frantic, so concerned.

"Please Dean, wake up. Please."

He's truly pleading now, voice cracking and warping with it and it makes Dean's heart ache. There are tears running down Dean's cheeks now, warm and salty and stinging in the fine scratches in his face. He doesn't remember when he started crying. Sam's voice is fading, echoing like he's talking to Dean through a dying phone line. Or maybe Dean's the one fading. _I'm awake, Sam, I'm awake_ he wants to say but his vision is dimming at the corners and his tongue is numb in his mouth and god he wants to hold on but he's been holding on for so long and he's very tired. The last thing he hears before he slips into the dark once more is his name on his brother's lips, ringing in his skull like church bells.

He wakes again to the feeling of stiff sheets under his back and a pinch in his arms. He still hurts, but it's subdued now. Hidden away under layers of what Dean assumes is some strong fucking drugs. Peeling his eyes open he winces against the fluorescent lights of the hospital room, tongue running over dry cracked lips. There's the sound of a door opening and he looks over, expecting to see his brother walking through the door. Instead he finds a slightly worn looking nurse, pretty in a practical way. Any other day there'd already be a pick-up line rolling off his tongue. Today is not any other day though.

She smiles a little when she see's him looking at her, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Good to see you awake, you've been out for a few days Mr. Shoemaker."

He's all doped up on whatever's in that IV and blood loss and it takes him a second to register that Shoemaker's probably the name on whatever fraudulent insurance card they found in his wallet. She ignores his hesitation, just starts fiddling with some of the complicated looking machinery by his bed. He swallows, clearing his throat.

"How many days?"

He rasps, voice rusty with disuse. She eyes the watch on her wrist for a second before replying.

"Well, as of about ten minutes ago: four. You really needed your beauty sleep apparently."

She says, faint smile tugging on her lips as she glances over at him, and it makes her beautiful.

"Where's my brother?"

Is the second question out of his mouth, urgent and expectant. Her brow furrows a little and she tilts her head in confusion.

"Your brother?"

"Yeah, he's about six foot six? Too much hair? He rode here with me in the ambulance."

She pauses then, fingers stilling at their work and the smile fades away, replaced by something that looks almost like pity. She looks at him, gentle and kind and sad, and Dean feels his stomach clench.

"I'm sorry sir… nobody was with you on the ride here."

Her voice is soft, concerned, sympathetic, like she's talking to a child or a wounded animal. Which, Dean supposes, he's a little bit of both right now. The sound of it makes him want to throw up. He'd seen Sam, heard him loud and clear. He was there, Dean knows it._ Do you though?_ A nasty little voice in the back of his head whispers, oily and sinuous, _do you really know? Maybe it's all finally caught up to you, maybe you're finally going crazy. The nurse certainly thinks so._

"Speaking of which, is there anyone you want us to call? You didn't have any emergency contacts marked down."

Sam's out of the question, of course. He thinks of Bobby, 900 miles away in South Dakota. He'd come if Dean called, he knows that. But what would be the point? Bobby would just be worried about something neither of them can change, and it's not like the guy needs more shit on his plate. He shakes his head. Looks away to avoid the pitying look he knows is coming.

"No." He says, quietly. "I got no one."

She doesn't reply. Just reaches out and rests a light hand on Dean's shoulder. It's the first time someone's touched him with kindness since he left Bobby's and it almost aches. After a moment she draws away and he has to close his eyes.

"Go back to sleep, you've still got some recovering to do."

She whispers softly, and then she's gone.

It took 45 stitches to close him up, the doctor tells him the next day. Apparently a couple of hikers found him in the morning, half covered in snow and lying in a pool of his own blood. They thought he was dead; he nearly was when he came in.

"You've got angels looking out for you son,"

The doctor says, a little bit wonderingly, and Dean's not sure whether to laugh or cry at that.

"By the way, the police want to talk to you. We haven't had an animal attack like that around here in years. You think you're up to it?"

"I'm still feeling a little tired." Dean says, "How about tomorrow?"

Of course, he has no plans on being here tomorrow. No, it's better to leave before they start asking too many questions that he doesn't have answers for and wondering why Dean Shoemaker looks a looks a lot like a dead serial killer from Saint Louis. The doctor doesn't know that though, and he just smiles and nods and tells Dean to get some rest.

* * *

AN: and the penny drops. Also, shoutout to Psychee for being very kind and letting me borrow a few words from them for this chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean waits till nightfall before he makes his escape, pretending to be asleep when a nurse comes to check on him. After she leaves he shoves the blankets off and swings his legs out of the bed carefully. The linoleum floor is cool against his bare feet as he slips off and he shivers a little, wincing as his jacked up leg protests at the movement, threatening to buckle under him for a second. It's probably still to early for him to really be moving around considering his insides were doing their darndest to be outsides only a few days ago but he doesn't have the luxury of waiting any longer. He pulls the IV out of the crook of his elbow a little regretfully, saying a wistful goodbye to the morphine. There's a little plastic bag with his belongings in it sitting on the empty chair next to his bed and he rifles through it. Most of his clothes are too shredded and bloodstained too be useful but he grabs the keys to the Impala and the necklace Sam gave him when they were kids. The rest he leaves behind.

The breezy hospital gown does little to protect him from the chilly air-conditioned air as he slips out into the hallway, quietly closing the door behind him. He's been in enough hospitals to have a handle on how most of them are laid out and quickly finds the locker rooms, rifling through lockers till he finds some jeans and a t-shirt that fit him. The shoes are a size too big and look like the kind of sneakers that most grandfathers enjoy wearing but they're better then going barefoot. There's a wallet in the pocket of the jacket hanging in the locker that has a some cash in it which he pockets, whispering a silent apology to whatever nurse is about to have a bad day.

Chucking his hospital gown in a trashcan he heads out the front door to the parking lot, limping a little. It's pretty slim pickings, only a handful of cars still parked in the lot at this hour. He steals a crappy little grey Toyota, tries not to think about how Sam would laugh if he saw him crammed into the front seat. It kind of works, mostly because the stitches in his stomach definitely don't like the way he's sitting even a little bit. Gritting his teeth he presses the accelerator down and pulls out of the parking lot.

His first stop is the trailhead where he'd left the Impala. By some miracle she's still sitting there, a little dusty but otherwise untouched. He runs a hand down her hood affectionately, brushing off a few stray leaves and giving her a pat. The engine rumbles too life comfortingly when he turns the key, radio sparking on in the middle of some Mötorhead song. He leaves the Toyota behind in the parking lot with relief and doesn't look back.

His second stop is the motel room he'd set up camp in when he rolled into town. Luckily he paid for a week in advance so his stuff's still sitting untouched where he left it four days ago. He changes quickly, pulling on a pair of his own jeans and chucking the ugly sneakers into the trash. There's not much to pack, most of it already in his duffle bag but his leg's slowing him down and it takes longer then it should to clean up.

They've probably already noticed that he's disappeared from his hospital room by now and it's a small town, it won't be hard to track down the stranger who checked in six days ago at the cheapest motel around. Still, he takes a second to clean up a little in the bathroom, running the faucet as cold as it will go and splashing water on his face. It helps wake him up a bit. He's patting his face dry with one of the ratty motel towels when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and pauses. He looks like shit. His face is pale and waxy; dark smudges drawn heavy under his eyes. There are lines there he doesn't remember, and he looks very old and very young at the same time. Mostly, though, he just looks burnt out.

Shaking himself out of his stupor he finishes drying himself off and heads out the door, throwing his bags into the back and climbing carefully into the front seat. The sun has just risen in the east and the cracked grey concrete of the lot is bathed in its pale watery light. There's something sad and beautiful to it, something fleeting. The neon vacancy sign flickers with a keening hum that echoes in his ears. He almost died here in this sleepy little town in the middle of Wisconsin. He came damn close. That should frighten him, it _did_ frighten him, but not anymore. Now he just feels numb. The sun rises and the sign hums and his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. He pulls out of the parking lot without looking back.

He points the car south and drives till he's not in Wisconsin anymore, finds a motel in Rockford and checks in. He's flagging hard by now, listing a little the left and he has to brace himself on the front desk to stay upright. The woman behind the desk eyes him warily but he slaps an extra fifty on the counter and she keeps her mouth shut and hands him the keys quietly.

His stomach and his leg are really starting too hurt by the time he reaches his room, something fierce and deep and insistent. Not bothering to get undressed he pops a few ibuprofen and washes them down with whiskey and passes out on top of the covers. If he dreams, he doesn't remember it.

He wakes up to the sound of birds chirping brightly somewhere near his window. Slowly he forces his eyes open, squinting against the sun. His mouth is dry as bone and tastes like crap, and he_ hurts_. Swallowing he pushes himself up and swings his feet over the edge of the bed, wincing a little as his body protests at the movement. A quick glance the clock shows that he slept almost twenty-four hours straight. He just sits there for a second, runs a hand down his face and lets himself feel every ache and pain. Finally he accepts the fact that he's going to have to get up and move because he needs to pee, he smells like shit, and he's starving.

He drags his battered body to the bathroom, bum leg complaining with every step like he's 80 years old. Turning the shower on he starts to get undressed, carefully shrugging off his flannel and reaching down to lift his t-shirt over his head. It's a painful process, his stomach protesting as his muscles shift and bend, and by the end he's sweating and out of breath, face pale again.

This is the part that he hates the most about getting hurt, the after. When he's still recovering, weak as a kitten and just as defenseless. He hates not being able to do the things he normally can, hates not being in control of himself. Sam had made it easier. With his gentle concern and the hovering and the big watery eyes. Dean had always pretended to be irritated by it, slapping away his hands when he tried to help and grumbling at Sam's insistence that he do silly things like rest and not push himself while he was healing but if he's honest he hadn't really minded. It was kinda nice to have someone around to care if he lived or died, to bandage him up and make sure his stitches weren't infected and that Dean actually took the antibiotics they stole from the Riteaid down the street instead of throwing them in the trash as soon as he started to feel better.

Sam's not here though. Sam's not here and Dean just has to suck it up and deal. Straightening he eyes his stomach in the mirror. It's a mess of stitches, bright and stark against pale skin. It'll scar ugly for sure; add another mark to the road map of suffering that is his body. Another story, to be shared with no one. Another reminder of the brutality of this life. He should be dead a hundred times over, but he isn't, and he's not sure why. Why does he keep living when everyone around him dies?

He almost calls Sam later after he's showered but stops himself before he can dial the number. What is he supposed to say? _Hey hope you're doing well by the way I almost died the other day, hallucinated you in my last moments, and now I think I might be losing my mind_. He's sure that would go over just great. Instead he sits for a long moment on the bed with the phone on his hand, Sam's number glowing on the screen and his finger hovering over the dial button before throwing it down on the sheets beside him. He can't pull Sam back into this, no matter how much he wants to. It wouldn't be fair, not when Sam's made it very clear he wants no part in hunting anymore. Sam would come, of course he would, but he would grow to resent Dean eventually, and of all the things in the world that Dean can bear that's not one of them.

That night he dreams again. It's different now; he's not in the Impala this time. He's somewhere else, somewhere else familiar, but Dean can't put his finger on it. It smells like forest and dirt and dust. He's lying on a couch, he thinks, and there's somebody talking somewhere near him. They're on the phone, he thinks, but he can't make out the words, just the tension in their voice. He wakes up feeling unsettled and anxious, like an itch he can't quite scratch.

He stays about a week more in the motel resting up, healing. But the itch never goes away, just grows and grows and grows till he feels like it's consuming him. On the third day he packs up, gets in the Impala and drives. There's no real destination, just a driving sense that he has to move, has to leave. He thinks about going to Bobby's, it's only about a day away if he pushes it, but he scraps the idea. He doesn't want Bobby to see him like this, doesn't want to see Bobby like this. Not when he's all messed up. So instead he points the car west and just goes.

He drives for three days, barely stops to eat, sleeps in the back seat of the Impala. He drives for three days and before he knows what he's done he's pulling off the highway into Palo Alto. He doesn't know what brought him here, just that he had to come. He's being pulled, like fish to the sea or a moth to the flame. It's dangerous, but there's no refusal in it.

Last time they texted Sam told him the address of his new apartment and Dean pulls up in front of it, parking across the street. For a second he just sits in the car, key still in the ignition, hand still holding the warm metal so tight it bites a pattern into the pads of his fingertips. And this is safe he tells himself, he's just looking, that's it. He can be gone in a second; like he was never even here. The apartment building looks, well, it looks nice. All white siding on the outside and rows of identical windows staring back at him. It looks safe and normal and like everything Dean's ever hated (everything he desperately wants) and it's Sam's home now. A home that isn't just a vintage car and the person sitting next you in it. It's funny to think about that, Sam having a home. A place to go back to at the end of the night, drink a beer, put his feet up, watch a movie. A place to feel safe.

And maybe that's why Dean's here. Because like every creature whose been hurt, who's afraid and confused and lost, he just wanted to go home. And home for Dean has always been Sam.

His phone rings then, nearly startling him. He pulls it out of his pocket, glances at the caller ID. It's his brother. Of course it is. Sam's always had impeccable timing. He answers, pushing the door to the Impala open and stepping out of the car onto the sidewalk.

"Hey, Dean."

"Hey, Sammy."

He says, voice cracking. He clears his throat and tries again.

"What's going on, everything alright?"

He can almost hear the shrug in Sam's voice when he replies.

"Yeah, everything's fine. Just hadn't heard from you in a while. Everything alright with you? You sound a little rough."

Dean takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes for a second.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm good. Just got a cold. Washington weather's a bitch this time of year. What are you up too?"

"Just heading home from campus. I have a midterm on Tuesday so I've been putting hours in at the library."

As if on cue Dean sees his brother round the corner, phone held to his ear in between his neck and shoulder, arms full of paper grocery bags. There's a book bag slung around his arm, hair tousled and messy, and he looks for all the world like a regular college student headed home after a long day of studying, looks so happy. Dean can nearly see it radiating off of him.

"What's it for? The test?"

He watches his brother scoff across the street, hears the sound echoing in his ear. A strange duality. Like Sam is both here and not here.

"Like you really care, Dean."

That stings a little, somewhere deep inside him that is still tender and aching and wanting. But Dean swallows it down, presses again.

"Come on, humor me man. Can't a guy want to know what his little brother is up too?"

Dean asks, voice rough. Sam rolls his eyes but gives in, laughing a little.

"Okay, fine, whatever. It's for my constitutional law class. I actually took it my last quarter, but part of their deal letting me back in is that I have to redo a lot of credits. It's pretty fascinating though, so I don't really mind."

Dean can't help but let out a snort at the glee in his brothers voice. Some things never change. And that's comforting in a way.

"Jesus Sam, you're such a fucking nerd."

Sam huffs, in that irritated-but-not-really way that he always does when Dean teases him like this. And it's good to hear. All of this is good. It feels so right, like slipping back into a favorite t-shirt you though you'd lost. Sam geeking out about constitutional law or whatever and Dean giving him shit for it. The gentle give and take. It's so achingly familiar, and he settles back into the easy rhythm.

Sam's at the door to his apartment building now, setting down his groceries and fishing his keys out of his jacket pocket. His hair is falling forward over his face but Dean can still see the smile that he's trying to hide.

"Hey, you asked."

And Dean did ask. Because he wants to know. Wants to know the boring mundane details of it all. Because he's tired of running and hiding and pretending he's fine, tired of trying to ignore the piece of him inside that's slowly dying. And Sam's right there, just across the road. Only the tenuous line of the phones they both still hold separates them. It's nothing and it's everything and every muscle in Dean's body is straining to keep his feet planted, to stop him from walking across the street and breaking the fragile distance between them. Just as he's about to call out though a car pulls into the space in front of Sam's apartment, lights blinking off. He pauses, watches as Sam glances at the driver and grins. A second later a pretty brunette gets out, closing the car door behind her and saying something Dean can't make out. Sam laughs though, the sound echoing tinny in Dean's ear, and he feels his stomach drop.

"Sorry Dean. I gotta go. Call you back later?"

Sam asks, laughter still clinging to his voice and Dean nods numbly, tries to force his voice into some semblance of normality when he replies.

"Yeah, sure man. Good luck on the test."

The line clicks in his ear and just like that road between them is an abyss, gaping and endless and Dean is eternally on the wrong side. Close enough to watch but never close enough to touch. The girl's got her arms around Sam's neck now, and he watches as Sam's hands settle on her waist, comfortable and familiar, like they're meant to be there. Watches as his brother leans down to kiss her, intimate and tender and Dean feels almost like a voyeur, like he's watching something not meant for him. He doesn't turn away though, just stands there with his phone still loose in his hand. Watches as they pull back, as Sam brushes her hair away from her face with a hand that Dean has watched do so much violence but now is as gentle as a kitten. He waits till the door swings shut behind them and then he gets in the Impala and drives away.

Because this isn't a hook-up or a one night stand or casual sex. This is something more, it's how he felt with Cassie, how Sam used to look at Jess. Maybe not love yet, but something that could be. It's tender and good and gentle. And he sees now that it's truly over for him. Sam has a life here, has a chance at family. He was happier in that simple moment then Dean's ever been able to make him. Dean can't take that away from him, he just can't. There's no room for Dean or the monsters he brings nipping at his heels in Sam's life anymore. The last time he showed up Jessica burned on the ceiling. The last time he showed up it almost ended up with a knife four inches deep in Sam's back. And he thinks, then, that maybe it would have been better if he'd died in that forest in Wisconsin. Better he'd faded away into the shadows he spent his life in. Or maybe he should have died in that hospital in Sioux Falls, should have never made it out of that car crash alive.

He's not sure what to do now, but he knows he can't be in California any longer. He drives till he's in Nevada and finally when he can't drive anymore he pulls over at the first seedy bar he can find and orders himself one drink and then another and another and another. And then one drink's turned into five and then more then five and then he loses count. He thinks, maybe, that this is something he should be concerned about, as the world spins and dips around him. The way it's so easy for one drink to turn to five and then to more for him these days. Thinks about his dad coming back to whatever shitty motel room they were bunking down in for the night smelling of whiskey and stale sweat. Then he doesn't think about that because it's been almost two years now but the thought of his dad is still raw and painful to the touch. He orders another shot of tequila and looks down at the way the dim light casts golden shadows on the bar top and he sees nothing. Sees a hole where a choice is supposed to be. He is nothing but his father's son.

The next morning he wakes up in the alley behind the bar, facedown in the gutter. For a second he doesn't remember what state he's in and then he does and then he throws his guts up onto the pavement next to him, still healing stitches in his stomach burning. When he's done heaving he wipes his face off on his sleeve and stumbles his way back to where he dimly remembers parking the Impala last night. By the grace of god (and Dean nearly scoffs at that, because when has god ever given him grace) she hasn't been towed and he clambers into the front seat, ungainly and slow, not bothering to close the door behind him. There's a half full bottle of water rolling around the bottom of the foot well and he grabs it, rinses his mouth out with tepid water that tastes vaguely of plastic and spits it out onto asphalt. Takes a swig and swallows it this time. His mouth still feels dry as bone. The rest of him does too.

Pulling off his vomit stained shirt he balls it up he throws it in the back, and then he's closing the door and sticking the keys in the ignition. It's going to be fine he tells himself. He knows now. He can move on, it'll be alright.

It's not.

The first time he sees him he's walking back from a bar in Pocatello, Idaho and he almost doesn't notice him. It's late and dark and Dean's tanked and he barely clocks the man standing at the end of the street, half hidden by shadows. He figures he's just another late night drunk like him, out for a smoke break maybe. It's not till he gets closer and the light of the street lamps resolves his face into something more then a shadowed mass that he sees. His brother stares at him, face sad and soft in the flickering fluorescent glow. Dean stops dead in his tracks, breath catching in his throat.

"Dean,"

His brother says and it sounds so real. His first thought is that Sam looks solid enough that he could reach out and touch him but he can't because Sam's not here in Idaho, he's in California. His second thought is shape shifter and he's already fumbling for the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans but by the time clumsy whiskey-slow hands have it out Sam's gone like he was never even there, leaving nothing behind but empty shadows.

"Sam?"

He calls out futile and desperate and hopeless, and of course there is no reply. His hands shake when he stuffs the gun back into his pants, shake as he walks back to his room and lines the windows with salt. He's just drunk, he tells himself. Just drunk and seeing things that aren't there, he'll cut back on the tequila shots tomorrow night. Still, he sleeps that night with silver under his pillow.

The second time he sees him he's sober. He's in Texas now, hunting a rawhead down in El Paso. One moment he's alone in the dank basement and the next Sam's standing there like a ghost in the darkness, flashlight beam dancing across his face and reflecting off his eyes. Dean freezes for a second, taser hanging loosely by his side. It's only a second, but it nearly costs him as the rawhead bursts out of a corner, barreling towards him. He barely gets the taser up in time. After he fries the thing he looks back but Sam's gone, like he was never even there.

The next day he calls Sam. It rings for a long time and Dean almost gives up but just as he's about to hang up Sam picks up.

"Hey, Dean."

Sam says, sounding a little surprised. Dean never calls first. He takes a deep breath, trying figure out what exactly he wants to ask his brother that won't make him sound just on the other side of stark raving crazy.

"I know this sounds a little weird but have you been traveling lately. Like Idaho maybe, or Texas?"

"What? No-no I'm in the middle of finals, I'm not going anywhere. I haven't even left Palo Alto since you dropped me off. What's going on Dean?"

Dean swallows. He doesn't know why he asked, even if Sam wasn't safely tucked away in California what's happening to him still wouldn't make sense. But this truly cements it.

"Nothing, it's nothing."

He says brusquely, wiping a hand over his face. Jesus, he needs a drink.

"Are you sure? You sound really…tense. You'd tell me if something was up, right?"

Dean smiles, and it's almost not bitter.

"Yeah, yeah of course I would. Look, I gotta get going. Long drive ahead of me. Take care of yourself, alright?"

Sam doesn't sound convinced but he lets Dean go. After he hangs up Dean pours himself a drink from the cheap bottle of whiskey he'd bought at the mini-mart next to the motel and considers his options. Could be a shapeshifter, but if it is it's not acting like any shapeshifter Dean's run into before. It could be something he's never encountered before, something new. Or, maybe he's just going crazy. He grimaces, finishes off his drink and pours himself another. None of his options are particularly appealing. Still, so far this thing, whatever it is, hasn't done anything to hurt him. Hopefully it'll stay like that.

Things finally come to a head two weeks later. He's driving from Oklahoma down to Louisiana when a storm rolls through. He's hungry and needs a piss so he pulls off to stop at a gas station. It's a late spring rain, cold and driving and it soaks through the canvas of his jacket in the few minutes it takes for him to run into the gas station and back. Shaking himself like a dog he hops back into the impala, dumping the pile of chips and candy he'd bought onto the seat next to him. Pulling open a bag of Doritos and popping a few in his mouth he cranks the music up and accelerates back onto the highway. He's actually feeling pretty good. He hasn't seen or dreamed anything since that basement in Texas, and an old hunter friend of his had called him asking for some help with a case in Baton Rouge, and man, does he love Louisiana.

He makes it about ten minutes down the highway before he slams on the brakes, Impala shuddering to a halt, as the tires skid out on the wet asphalt and he spins to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Standing there in the middle of the highway is Sam.

"Fuck," he breathes, hands clenching on the wheel. "Fuck! not again."

Reaching for the glove box he pulls out his gun. He's not sure it'll do anything, but it makes him feel better to have it then not. Turning off the music he gets out the car, slamming the door behind him. The rain soaks him in a minute. He looks at his brother and his brother looks back.

He's shivering now, from the rain or from shock or from something else all together. Sam stands there, as dry as if he was standing in the middle of a desert.

"Dean,"

He says, like he always does, and Dean feels like weeping.

"Why," He whispers through numb lips. "Why are you doing this to me Sammy?"

And it's not Sammy, it can't be, but it's wearing his face and it says his name in just the way Sam used to and Dean's so tired now; tired of it all. Tired of running from this, whatever it is, tired of being alone. Tired of being left behind. Sam, or not-Sam, or whatever this thing is, doesn't flinch.

"Dean," it (he) says again. "You have to wake up."

Dean slams his hand down on the roof of the Impala in frustration, anger bubbling up in his chest mixed with an awful sensation of impotence. The cool metal gives a little under his fist, sending water arcing into the air.

"I am awake!" He growls, "For fucks sake Sam I'm standing here and talking to you. I'm fine!"

Sam just shakes his shaggy head, eyes sad.

"You're not fine Dean, you're dying."

Dean stares, a chill settles over him and he swallows hard, struggling to hold on to his anger.

"What the hell are you talking about."

Sam stares back, impassive and somber. As if on cue a sharp whine begins to ring in his ears. He flinches, eyes squinting against the pain, hands reaching for his head; gun still clutched in his fist. The sound just grows and grows though, till it's all he can hear. He falls to his knees, hard enough to bruise, and vaguely feels water soaking into his jeans. He might be screaming but if he is he can't hear it over the ringing. Just before the world fades to black he looks up and sees Sam, still watching. Always watching.

When he comes to the rain has stopped and Sam is gone. His head aches like the worst hangover of his life and his whole body hurts. He groans, rolling onto his side and pushing himself up. When he brings a hand to his still ringing ears his fingers come away bloody. It takes a second to get to his feet, and when he does he stumbles over to the Impala, folding himself into the front seat. For a second he just sits there, panting. His mouth feels dry and cracked and there's a jackhammer going off between his eyes. After he's pulled himself together a little bit he reaches for his phone, dialing Bobby's number. This isn't something he can handle on his own, not anymore. The phone goes straight to voicemail and Dean resists the urge to curse. Instead he bites his tongue and takes a breath.

"Bobby, I think… I think something's after me. I've been seeing stuff. At first it was just dreams but now…Just-just call me back when you get this alright?"

Then he turns the Impala around and starts for South Dakota.

* * *

AN: Shit gets real, or unreal.


	6. Chapter 6

Bobby calls him back when he's in Nebraska.

"I got your message." He says, blunt and to the point as always, "What's going on."

Dean shakes his head, fingers tight around the wheel of the impala as he guides it down the road. He's been going since Oklahoma. Scared to stop, scared to sleep, scared to do anything but drive.

"I got no fucking clue Bobby, that's why I called you. And where the hell where you? Took you long enough to pick up your damn phone."

He snaps, voice sharp and unfamiliar in his ears.

"Hey, watch your mouth, boy. I had things I had to take care of."

Bobby snaps right back, gruff and pissed. Dean winces, sighs. Bobby's gonna help him, it's not fair to bite his head off for nothing.

"I'm sorry," he says, and means it. "I'm just… I'm freaking out here Bobby. I-I don't know what to do."

Bobby sighs, a long crackling sound.

"It's okay. You just get yourself here in one piece and we'll figure it out alright. We always do."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right." Dean says, with a confidence he doesn't feel. "I should be there in a couple hours."

When he pulls into the junkyard Bobby's already standing out on the porch waiting, arms folded over his chest. It's edging just past 10 PM now and Dean's been driving for almost 14 hours straight. Sam, or the thing that's pretending to be Sam, hasn't reappeared though, and he can be grateful for that.

"So," Bobby says after he's settled Dean inside on his couch and poured him a few fingers of whiskey, "What's got you acting all riled up?"

Dean takes a long sip of the whiskey, running a hand across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. The headache still hasn't receded, throbbing in the back his head like it's got it's own heartbeat.

"I've been…I've been having these weird dreams the past couple months. They started right after I dropped Sam off in California. They're always the same, I can't move and I can hear Sam calling for me, telling me to wake up. And at first it was just the dreams-" he pauses, takes another swallow, "I'm seeing things, Bobby. I'm seeing Sam, and he talks to me. But he's still in Palo Alto, I checked, has been since I left him there. He usually just says my name, or some shit like that but today… he told me I was dying and then all of a sudden I blacked out."

"And it's not a shape shifter?"

Dean shakes his head, agitated. Tense.

"If it is it's one I've never seen before. I mean it appears and disappears like a spirit or a ghost, but I've never seen a ghost take on someone else's shape." He stands now, running a hand through his hair like that will brush away the terror of last 12 hours, tries to keep his voice from cracking, "And that doesn't explain the dreams. Jesus, what if I'm losing it Bobby? What if there's no monster, my gourds finally just cracked. What if I'm going crazy?"

And there it is, the unspoken fear that terrifies Dean more then any ghost or monster could. Those he can hunt, he can kill or burn or bury. But his own mind, well, there's things tucked away in there he'd be glad to never face again. And there's nothing silver bullets or machetes can do against Dean's brain deciding to take a vacation to crazy town.

"Let's not go jumpin' the gun here alright? There are plenty of other monsters out there that can change form 'sides shape shifters. Or it could be a curse you picked up from somewhere, you've pissed enough people off. Maybe even some jacked up tulpa. No need to jump to conclusions. Sides, if you were gonna lose it you'd have done it along time ago."

Bobby says, steady as always, voice even. Dean leans into the reassurance he hears there, lets it wash over him. For a second he thinks maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

"Why don't you get some sleep, I'll do some research and see what the lore has to say and we'll talk about plans in the morning."

Dean nods. His eyes are falling shut against his will and the whiskey's warm in his belly and he almost forgets why he's scared to go to sleep. Almost. But he let's Bobby take the empty glass from his hands and push him gently towards the stairs. Kicks off his boots and lays himself down in the cramped little bed in the guest room. Pulls the covers over his shoulders and tries to drift off. Every time his eyes close though he sees Sam's face flickering behind his eyelids, pale and worn, and he hears his words ringing in his ears. You're dying, Dean.

He has a terrifying thought that night, lying in a too small bed waiting for rest that doesn't come. Has a thought that turns his stomach to ice.

When he stumbles down the stairs the next morning, not sure if he even slept all, not sure if he's grateful for that, the thought lingers. It lingers as he picks at breakfast, as Bobby talks about ghosts and cursed objects and voodoo spells. And finally, finally he can't hold it back it anymore.

"What if it's another djinn?"

He asks, and his voice sounds small. Bobby gives him an odd look.

"Once, a while back, me and Sam were hunting a djinn and it got me. Hooked me up to a blood bag and put me in some sort of weird friggin lalaland while he drained me dry. I kept seeing this girl everywhere while I was out. Turns out the djinn had her all doped up too, and somehow she was making it over to my dream world. What if-" and he pauses here, because this is where he starts to sound crazy "what if it happened again. What if this is all a dream and Sam's trapped somewhere trying to warn me."

Bobby shakes his head, sympathy and maybe a hint of concern in his eyes. It makes Dean a little mad for some reason, but he presses it down and takes a breath. He's just tired.

"Come on, Dean. Djinn's are supposed to read your deepest desires and make them come true, at least in your head. You and I both know your deepest desire ain't this."

It's true. The last time he'd been poisoned he'd dreamed of a world where mom was alive, where Sam was getting married. Dreamed of a world that was safe and happy and ordinary. This, this is nothing like that. This is hell. He knows that.

"Yeah," he says, rubbing a hand across his face. His eyes feel blurry from lack of sleep, "You're right. I think it's just starting to get to me a bit."

Bobby's face softens, and he reaches out and puts a solid hand on Dean's shoulder. It feels real, warm and heavy and grounding, and Dean sinks into it for a moment.

"I know. But we'll figure it out. And you're staying here till we do, alright?"

Dean's too tired to argue, so he just nods. He thinks he could use some rest, could use a break from the road, could use some help. Just for a bit.

So he and Bobby hole up in the living room and flip through books and books and books, pages dry and crumbling under his fingers like dust. It reminds him of Sam, reminds him of motel rooms and late nights with Sam hunched over their laptops. He shuts that thought down before it has the chance to become anything bigger, something to big for him to handle right now.

Bobby calls around to a few hunters, but comes up empty. They don't find anything, and the days spill into each other. The demon or ghost or whatever the hell this thing is leaves him alone, no dreams or visions to speak of. And sometimes, in the quiet moments in between when they're not pouring through books and Dean lies in his too small and tries not to drown himself in Jack Daniels he see's his future stretching out in front of him like a road, bleak and lonely and endless, this curse riding shotgun in his head forever. Still, Dean can feel something, hiding just past the corner. It makes him anxious, like he's waiting for a storm to break, like he can taste the friction in the air like blood. He doesn't sleep much, drinks a lot. He can feel Bobby watching him, but he doesn't say anything. What is there to say?

It's been four days now and they've found jack squat as to what the hell's got Dean in its sights. Four days of books and tomes and ancient scrolls, of useless calls and Google searches. It's starting to feel like they're chasing empty leads, but it's not like they've got any other choice. Dean checks his watch, pushes back from the desk. It's just after three and they've been at it since nine. His back protests at the sudden movement after spending the last six hours curled over a table and he leans back, trying to crack it.

"I'm takin' a piss break."

He announces for no real reason other then to fill the air with something other then the sound of turning pages. Bobby grunts lightly but doesn't look up from the book he's bent over. Dean rolls his eyes and heads for the bathroom. He has to pass through the kitchen to reach it and he pauses. The cabinet where Bobby keeps his liquor is cracked open, and for a second Dean thinks about sitting down and pouring himself a drink. Or maybe two. Just something to keep the edge off, just something to keep him going. But he forces his feet past the cabinet and through the kitchen to the bathroom because sure, he likes to drink, but he's not falling into that pit. And he knows it's three o'clock, knows that Bobby would see and that would bring up things he doesn't want to talk about. Not yet. It takes more effort then he'd like though.

When he finishes up he splashes some water on his face, hoping the cold will wake him up a little. Reaching out to shut off the tap he glances up at his reflection in the mirror and freezes, hand stuttering to a halt, the water still running. It's his face staring back at him, but it's not right. It's him, but he looks old, and not just in the 'I haven't been sleeping enough' way. He literally looks 10 years older, unfamiliar lines creased into his face around his eyes and mouth, a new weariness to his eyes that speaks of years spent fighting and fighting and fighting. Slowly he reaches a hand up to his face, and in the mirror his reflection does the same, but when he touches his skin it's smooth and unlined.

"Wake up."

His reflection whispers, hand still pressed to his cheek and green eyes staring back at him. Dean hears his own voice in his head, but he's sure he hasn't said anything.

"Wake up."

Dean pulls his fist back and slams it into the mirror, glass cracking and cascading into the basin of the sink in a hundred glimmering pieces. Something cuts into Dean's knuckles and he feels the warm slide of blood down his wrist.

"Wake up."

Say shattered lips.

"Leave me alone!"

He spits out, fingers clenching and unclenching, slick with blood. A familiar whine starts in his ears, high and sharp and piercing. He lurches away from the mirror, trying to call out for Bobby, but his throat seizes and no sound comes out except for a strangled cry. The whine grows and grows to a crescendo, and then his knees are buckling and he scrabbles blindly for something to stop his fall, bringing down a towel rack with him with a clatter that he barely registers. The last thing he hears is Bobby shouting his name.

He wakes up on the living room couch with Bobby sitting across from him, arms crossed and chin nodding against his chest. It's dark outside now, and he wonders how long he's been out for. His hand's been bandaged at some point, spots of red stark against the white gauze.

"Bobby,"

His voice is rusty and dry, barely above a whisper, and he clears his throat and tries again.

"Bobby!"

This time Bobby jerks awake, hand going for a gun that isn't there. He relaxes when he sees Dean, cracking a tired smile.

"You're awake. Had me worried there for a second."

Dean winces, pushing himself up into a sitting position. Bobby reaches out to help him but Dean just brushes him off.

"What the hell happened?"

Bobby shrugs,

"You tell me. You just started yelling in the bathroom and when I made it in there I found you laid out cold on the floor, bleedin' from the ears, and the mirror all busted up. You've been out for nearly seven hours now."

"Fuck,"

He mutters under his breath, trying to stand. His legs are a little shaky under him but they hold, and he heads for the kitchen. He can feel Bobby close behind him. He makes a beeline for the cabinet and pours himself a finger of Jim Beam and swallows it down. Pours another. Then abandons the glass and puts the bottle to his lips. He gets one slug before Bobby's reaching up and yanking it away from his face.

"Hey hey hey, you mind telling me what the hell is going on before you drink yourself onto the floor again?"

Bobby asks, voice sharp. He ignores him, instead stumbling towards the bathroom. He pushes open the door, stepping through the mess on the ground. The sink is still covered in shards of broken glass and blood, like some macabre crime scene. He ignores it, searching out his face in the fractured remnants of mirror left on the wall. It's his, young(ish) and unlined and normal. He sags with relief, taking a fumbling step back, nearly colliding with Bobby who'd followed him into the bathroom. He turns, and sees the questions in his face before he even asks them.

"I'm scared," he whispers, voice cracking, "Bobby I'm real scared."

Bobby sits him down at the kitchen table and retrieves the fifth of Jim Beam from where he'd left it on the countertop. He takes a seat across from Dean, slides it over to him. Dean takes a long pull and a deep shaky breath.

"So, what happened."

Bobby asks quietly. Dean shakes his head,

"I- I don't know. I looked in the mirror and it was me, but not me. An older me. And then it started talking, telling me to wake up. Just like Sam. And then my ears started ringing again, the rest you saw."

"An older you?"

Bobby says, a hint of skepticism to his voice and eyebrows raised. Dean stands up, running both hands through his hair roughly, starts pacing around the kitchen. He stops, turns back.

"Bobby, I know it sounds crazy I do, but I swear to god that's what I saw."

"Alright, alright calm down. I believe you. But I'm starting to think we're out of our depth here, it might be time to call in the reinforcements."

Dean snorts,

"You think?"

He mutters under his breath, grabbing the whiskey from the table.

"Listen," Bobby continues, like he hadn't heard him "I know a psychic in Iowa by the name of Pamela Barnes, a little bit of a loose cannon but you can't find any better. We'll drive down there tomorrow, see if she can figure out what's going on with you."

"Bobby, what're you talking about? Pamela's dead."

Bobby gives him a strange look.

"Dean," he says slowly, like he's talking to a child, "Pamela ain't dead. And even if she was how the hell would you know? You've never met her in your life."

Dean pauses, bottle halfway to his lips, and wrinkles his eyebrows. Bobby's right, he's never even heard of a Pamela Barnes, doesn't know why he'd said that. It's just for a second he'd been so sure. He swallows hard, takes a drink and then another.

"Sorry," he says finally, "Must have been thinking of someone else."

But he hadn't. He'd been thinking about Pamela. And he doesn't know why. Bobby's still eying him carefully; like he's worried Dean's going to grow an extra head or spontaneously combust or something.

"Why don't you get some rest, you look like you need it."

Dean nods slowly, but he knows he won't be sleeping, not tonight. Instead, after Bobby disappears back into the living room he takes the Jim Beam and heads out to the yard, sits himself down on the hood of the Impala. Looks up at the stars like he and Sam have done so many times. It's a clear night, and not too cold, and Dean leans back against the cool metal of the car as he takes a swig. He reaches into his pocket, fingers closing around his phone. He thinks about calling Sam. Whatever this is is fucking with him good, and he's not sure he has all that much faith that Bobby's psychic will figure it out. And he can feel it getting worse, feel the storm coming. Something stops him though, just like something always does. It's odd, how much he wants to talk to his brother, how his bones ache with it, and how hard it is for him to just pick up the phone and call. He can tell himself all he wants that it's for Sam's own good, but he knows it's mostly because he's a coward. Because he's afraid of the day he calls and no one answers. He takes his hand out of his pocket and takes another drink.

He gets up the next morning in a foul mood. He'd slept an hour or two at best, he's hung over as hell, and now he has to face an 11-hour drive to nowhere Iowa to consult some psychic Bobby thinks might be able to help him. All in all it's already shaping up to be a craptastic day. He showers, unwrapping the bandaging on his hand before he gets in. His knuckles are littered with small cuts, red and angry against too pale skin. They sting under the hot water, and Dean closes his eyes and lets the pain swell and fade. After he gets back out he pulls out the first aid kit and rewraps it, struggling to keep the bandages straight with only one hand.

When he makes it downstairs Bobby seems to sense his mood, and breakfast is quiet and short. Dean keeps his head down and crabbily shovels eggs into his mouth and Bobby pretends not to be watching him. After breakfast Dean throws a couple changes of clothes and his gun into a pack and meets Bobby out in the yard.

"Alright," Bobby says, throwing a duffle bag in the back of his Chevelle, "Let's go get you some answers."

Dean doesn't have the same confidence that any will be provided but he's desperate enough to try anything. Doesn't mean he has to be excited about it though. Still, he gets in the Impala and follows Bobby out of the junkyard and onto I-90 east. The drive is long and boring and uneventful. They stop twice, once in Sioux City to grab lunch, and once in Fort Dodge for gas. He tries playing a few cassettes but his head hurts so bad that eventually he gives up and just drives in silence. Outside the windows fields and fields of corns rush by, like green gold oceans.

They finally pull up in front of a little white two-story house in Mount Pleasant (which really Dean thinks is a strong claim all things considering) a little past three. It's nice, with a big porch and colorful stained glass windows along the front, normal even. As he and Bobby walk up the gravel path to the front door Bobby clears his throat a little awkwardly.

"Just a word of warning, Pamela can be a little…aggressive."

Dean gives the door a heavy knock, looking over at Bobby and quirking an eyebrow.

"Aggressive? What's that supposed to mean?

Before Bobby can reply the door swings open revealing a tiny dark haired woman in tight jeans and an even tighter shirt. Dean has to focus to keep his jaw from dropping, when Bobby had said psychic he'd pictured another Missouri, not off-brand Angelina Jolie in low-rises.

"Bobby!"

She says with a laugh, pulling the grizzled hunter into a tight hug and nearly lifting him off his feet.

"You're a sight for sore eyes."

Bobby replies affectionately after she lets him down. She crosses her arms, gaze drifting to Dean, and he gets the distinct and vaguely uncomfortable feeling that he's being appraised as she gives him the up and down. He resists the urge to fidget under her piercing feline eyes.

"So," she says after a long second, although her eyes don't leave Dean, "This him?"

"Dean, Pamela Barnes. Best damn psychic in the state."

Bobby offers by way of introduction. Dean gives her a tense smile. There's something about her that's almost predatory, she's eyeing him like she's a lion and he's a nice raw steak. He understands now what Bobby means by 'aggressive'.

"Dean Winchester, heard you've been having some sleeping problems."

He glances over at Bobby who shrugs, and then back to Pamela.

"Yeah, guess you could say that."

He says with a sloping shrug. She laughs, shifts to the side.

"Come on in, lets see what we can do about those nasty dreams of yours."

As Bobby squeezes past her Dean's hit by the strangest sense of déjà and for a moment he could swear he's been here before, in this moment, this place. But it slips away as soon as it comes and he brushes it off and follows Bobby into the house.

Once they're all inside Pamela crosses her arms again, grinning widely at both of them.

"Alright, from what Bobby here's told me it sounds like you got yourself a nice curse laid on you. I've got a quick spell should let us know what we're working with here. Sit yourself down at the table, let me grab some stuff, and then we'll get to it."

When Pamela disappears into the kitchen he leans towards Bobby and mumbles stiffly under his breath,

"You think she can actually pull this off?"

Bobby looks up at him from where he's settled at the small round table, gesturing for Dean to take a seat. Dean complies begrudgingly.

"If anyone can it's Pamela, she's the best-"

"Damn psychic in the state. Yeah, yeah, I know."

Deans grumbles, finishing off Bobby's sentence with him. As if summoned by her name Pamela reappears from the kitchen with a plastic bottle of water, a bowl, and carton full of-

"Are those eggs?"

Dean asks incredulously. Pamela smirks and nods, setting her supplies down on the table.

"Yes indeed they are. Farm fresh and free range."

Dean feels his eyebrows migrate somewhere towards his hairline.

"You're gonna figure out if I'm cursed with some eggs and a bowl of water."

His voice is flat and painfully dry. Pamela just picks up the plastic bottle and pours about half of the water into the bowl before screwing the cap back on and setting it to the side.

"Close, I'm going to figure it out with a bowl of holy water and some eggs. Now, take off that jacket, sit up straight and close your eyes."

She orders, fishing an egg out of the carton. Dean glance to Bobby, disbelieving.

"Oh come on, Bobby, you can't be serious about this."

Bobby just shakes his head and offers no support.

"Just shaddup and do what she says Dean."

Dean sighs, still dubious, but complies, shrugging off his jacket and pulling himself up straight in the chair. He's done weirder shit before, he thinks as he closes his eyes. There are soft steps as Pamela circles around the table towards him, and he can feel the heat of another body standing behind him. She's wearing perfume, something spicy and warm and it makes his nose itch. He sniffs, wrinkling his nostrils.

"You're not gonna crack that on my head or anything right?"

He can almost feel her roll her eyes.

"Of course not. Now quiet, I have to focus to make this work."

Dean feels the soft pressure of the egg on the top of his head, pressing his hair flat against his skull. Pamela starts to chant something in a language he doesn't recognize, it feels ancient and primal, and a shiver runs down his back. She starts to move the egg slowly, back along the base of his skull, down his neck, following the curve of his spine. When she gets to about his mid back she stops and changes direction, moving the egg to the left along his ribs. Her arm slips under his, till she's half hugging him from behind. She pauses when the egg reaches the middle of his chest, just between his lungs. Then the chant ends and she pulls away.

"Alright, let's see what we've got."

She says cheerily, taking a seat across from Dean and Bobby and pulling the bowl towards her. Dean shakes himself a little, like a dog drying himself off. He's never liked the feel of magic on him, good or bad. Pamela takes the egg and taps it sharply against the table before cracking the shell open and letting the yolk fall into the bowl. The reaction is immediate as it touches the holy water. The bright yellow of the yolk sizzles and hisses and turns a deep black, twisting in the water like it's burning.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but eggs aren't supposed to do that are they?"

He says slowly. Pamela shakes her head, looking closely at the darkened mass.

"Nope, they are not. Well, you've definitely been cursed, and it looks like a real doozy."

Dean feels his heart skip a beat at that and he leans forward a little bit, earnest now. For the first time in a long time he's thinks he can see a light at the end of the tunnel. And it's such a relief, such a relief to hear that this is something tangible, something real. That he's not just losing it.

"Can you break it?"

"Good news, I've got a spell that should do the trick. Bad news, it has to be performed on the night of a new moon."

"A new moon? The next one ain't for nearly three weeks."

Bobby chimes in, concern clear in his voice. Pamela gives him a look.

"You know I don't make the rules Bobby. Now, here's a list of things you'll need and instructions, just follow them the next new moon and you should be good as new."

"It's that easy?"

Dean asks skeptically. It seems to good to be true, when everything before has always been a slog through the mud with no end in sight, when everything before has always cost in blood.

"That easy." She says as she scribbles on a torn off page of notebook paper, "Curses are just spells with ill intent. And with spells you all you have to know is the right way to break them. Which lucky for you I do."

She hands the paper over to Dean when she's finished. He takes a second to look it over and frowns.

"No offense Pamela, but this seems like a whole lot of witchy shit, and that ain't exactly my style."

She shrugs, crossing her arms.

"Haven't you ever heard of fighting fire with fire? Look, take it or leave it Dean, it's up to you."

He looks at the list for a long moment, and then folds it up and tucks it in his pocket. He'll take it. He'll take anything at this point. Anything to stop this.

As they file out the front door Pamela follows them, leaning in the doorway with a hand on her hip.

"Always good to see ya Pamela."

Bobby says.

"You to Bobby, now don't go being a stranger. And Dean, you're welcome back anytime. Doesn't have to be for business."

She winks, lips stretched in a flirtatious smile. Dean coughs a little uncomfortably. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, any other day he'd be jumping at the chance. Pamela's exactly his type: hot, willing, and a little crazy. But not today, though. Not right now. Not when he feels like everything's crumbling down around him.

"Alright, see you back at the house."

Bobby says when they reach the cars. Dean sniffs, looks down at his feet, at the reflection of the sun in the window of the Impala.

"I was actually thinking about heading off on my own for a bit." He raises a hand to stop the protests he knows are coming, "Look, I know. I'll be careful, and I'll call if things start getting to wacked out to handle by myself. I just… I think I need some space. Just for a bit."

Bobby sighs, shakes his head. And Dean can see that moment he gives in.

"Alright. Just be back in time for the full moon. And maybe no hunting? Don't think you're exactly in the best headspace for it."

Dean nods,

"Scouts honor and all that."

He says, tracing an X on his chest. Bobby rolls his eyes, pulling open the door to the Chevelle.

"Sure, like you were ever a scout. Just… watch yourself Dean."

Dean gives him a crooked smile.

"Yeah Bobby, I will."

* * *

AN: The egg thing is a totally legit spell. When I was doing research for this chapter I fell into a black hole of egg related rituals. Apparently they're useful for a lot of things other then breakfast.


	7. Chapter 7

Bobby leaves first, Chevelle pulling away from Pamela's house with a low roar. Dean watches him go, waits till he disappears around the corner to get into the Impala. He's not really sure where he's heading, didn't have a plan or anything like that, just knew he needed some room to breath. It's not that he doesn't appreciate Bobby's help, hell, without him he'd probably still be spinning his wheels somewhere in Arkansas thinking he was crazy. The concern is a little suffocating sometimes though, like a too heavy blanket in the heat.

He decides to go camping. He and Sam have done their fair share of roughing it when they're too broke to afford a motel or stuck in the middle of nowhere, but he wants to do it right. With a tent and a campfire and marshmallows and all that, whatever normal people do when they go camping. He already has a sleeping bag tucked in the trunk but he swings by a Goodwill and picks up a tent for 10 bucks. It's bright orange and ugly and there's a hole in one corner, but it's good enough. And isn't that just his life, a long litany of 'good enoughs' that never seem to end. Mom's still dead but so is the demon that killed her, good enough. He got his brother back but watched his girlfriend burn on the ceiling, good enough. Lose dad but save Sam, good enough. Or maybe it's never been good enough, maybe that's just the lie he tells himself so that he can keep going. So he doesn't crumble under the weight of all the good enoughs. He shoves the tent into the back seat and slams the door. His throat aches, or maybe it just aches for a drink.

Next he stops by the grocery store and stocks up, shoves it all in the cooler in the back of the Impala. Picks up a few cords of wood on his way out too. The last stop is the liquor store. When he sets down his armful the clerk looks at the booze and then back to him with a hint of awe.

"You havin' a party or something?"

He asks as he rings Dean up.

"I'm-Me and my brother are going camping."

Dean lies, handing over a few crumpled bills.

He drives south till he's in Missouri. Pulls off at the first highway marker that offers camping he can find once it starts getting late. The entrance to the park is only about five minutes down the road, just past a high school. On one side of the road is an empty lot filled with piles of dirt, on the other is a paved road leading into a thick copse of trees. _Knob Noster State Park_, it says on one of those big wooden signs out front. Dean wishes Sam were there so he could make a dumb joke about the name, but Sam's not so he makes in his head and smirks at himself.

The road is cracked and full of potholes and Dean winces every time the Impala jerks and bucks as he guides her slowly forward. It's dark by now, and he has to squint to see where he's going. There's barely anyone in the campground, it's still a little early in the season, and Dean loops around the road a few times till he finds the most isolated site he can, in the back corner set against a small pond and a few anemic looking trees. He pulls in, sets up the tent with a minimal amount of cursing and starts a fire. Rooting around in the cooler for a minute he pulls out hotdogs and day old buns that had been on sale at the grocery store. Throws them both on the charred looking grate over the fire pit and cracks open a beer, sitting back in one of the half-broken camp chairs he and Sam had lugged around for months. It's quiet, and somewhere in the distance he can hear the sound of crickets and the muted roar of cars. Peaceful, almost. As peaceful as Winchester's get.

He leaves the hotdogs on for a little too long and they end up closer to blackened then grilled but he sticks them in the slightly stale buns anyway and washes them down with beer. They don't taste half bad, burn marks or no. When the fire's worked its way down to coals Dean realizes he has nothing to roast the marshmallows he bought impulsively on. He pulls out his bowie knife and sticks one on the tip, figures it'll work just fine. It's not the most efficient method, he has to pull his hand back every few seconds when it gets to hot and the marshmallow keeps trying to slide off the end. When he pops the first marshmallow in his mouth it's crisped on the outside and still raw on the inside. When the second one falls right off and goes up in small fireball of processed sugar he gives up and starts to eat them straight out of the bag, feeling like a kid who got left home alone for the first time.

There's something a little desperate to the way he shoves them in his mouth, like if he just does this right, if he ticks all the boxes, then maybe things will be okay. Like if he can just prove the world he's not all blood and bone and violence, maybe it'll finally cut him a break. After about the half the bag he starts to feel a little sick, mouth and fingers sticky and the oversweet taste turning sour on his tongue. He empties the rest of the bag in to the fire and watches it flare up with a gentle _woosh,_ throwing the rest of the campground into and eerie flickering relief for a second.

After that he breaks out the whiskey. He didn't pack cups so he just grabs the bottle, puts his feet up on the edge of the fire pit and leans back in the wobbly camp chair, far enough that for a second he's sure he's going to fall. But he doesn't, hangs suspended perfectly, balanced on the edge of a knife. It could go either way, he thinks. It could go either way.

He finishes the bottle in short order and tosses it into the remnants of the campfire. Watches as the cheap plastic label curl and melt in the heat, the bottle blackening at the edges. It sits there, slowly heating in the coals until it's glowing red. Abruptly it shatters with a pop, glass flying up to smack against the metal sides of the fire pit. Fuck it, he thinks suddenly, fuck it all. He's tired of being a coward, that's not who he is, not who he _wants _to be. Sam picks up at the fifth ring.

"Dean? Is everything okay?"

He answers, voice rough around the edges with sleep, and there's an edge of panic there. Dean realizes it might have been a bad idea to call Sam at an ungodly hour in the morning, because usually when they do that it means they're bleeding or kidnapped or-he stops himself there. This isn't the time to go down that road.

"Don't worry," Dean replies, hurrying to assuage the concern. "I'm camping!"

There's a long pause.

"You do realize it's two in the morning."

Sam's starting to sound less concerned now. Dean squints a little at the dying embers of his fire, tries to formulate the appropriate response.

"Yeaah. S'late."

He says finally, drawing out the word. He knows that he's slurring something awful. In the back of the phone call he can hear someone else talking, a girl. Sam replies, voice muffled like he's not speaking into the phone anymore.

"It's fine, it's my brother. He's just drunk dialing me, I think. Go back to bed, Amelia."

_Amelia._ It's a nice name. She's probably a nice girl too. Probably all sorts of nice and normal, just like Sam's always wanted. His throat tightens and he bites his lip hard enough to taste blood.

"Anyways, camping. I got marshmallows!"

He barrels on, pretending not to have heard, sort of wishing he hadn't.

"Jesus Dean, are you drunk?"

Now the concern is definitely gone and has been fully replaced by exasperation and a sort of weary resignation.

"That would be an affirmative Sammy. Yup. Definitely drunk." He confirms, glancing at the broken pieces of the fifth of whiskey now decorating his fire pit. "Why did we never go camping?"

Sam sighs, and it sounds funny and distant over the phone line.

"I don't know. We were always busy, I guess. Look, I have class in the morning and I gotta get some sleep. You should to."

"Yeah," he laughs, "Sleep. What a concept."

"Good night, Dean."

Sam says, tired and frustrated all at once. He's never sounded that way about Dean before, like he's a burden and not a brother. Dean's stomach clenches uncomfortably. He hadn't meant for it to go like this.

"Night Sammy."

Dean replies to an empty dial tone. Somewhere in the distance there's a distant peal of thunder.

It rains, because apparently there is a god and he hates Dean Winchester. The tent drenches through in a second (because of course the damn thing didn't come with a rain fly), the hole in the corner turning into a waterfall, and it drenches him along with it. He ends up curled up in the backseat of the Impala, damp sleeping bag stuffed into the trunk and his spare jacket spread over his shoulders. He wakes up the next morning sore and stiff and damp and decides that camping sucks dick. He doesn't bother getting out of the car, just pulls out of the campsite in a spray of wet dirt. Leaves the tent behind, a sad sagging orange sore against the muddy brown of the campsite. Like some sort of bizarre tropical bird had gotten lost on it's migration to Mexico and landed here, broken wings splayed across the ground. He doesn't look back.

He drives till he hits a town and finds a diner, orders breakfast from the cute blonde waitress with a too wide grin. Takes his flask out and pours a healthy splash of whiskey into his coffee when nobody's looking, hair of the dog and all that. The cute blonde waitress winks at him as she drops his pancakes off, and because he's feeling particularly self destructive when she tells him she's on her break in five and she lives just around the corner while she leaves the check he follows her home.

He watches her get dressed when they're finished, propping himself up on his elbows as she shimmies back into her jeans and moves to pull on her t-shirt. She notices him watching, and smiles flirtily, abandoning the t-shirt for the moment.

"Liking the view?"

He smirks, raising his eyebrows.

"Can't say that I don't."

She flips her hair over her shoulder and comes to sit down on the bed next to him, he shifts to the side to make room. Reaching up she traces the anti-possession symbol tattooed onto his shoulder with curious fingers.

"What's this, you in some kinda cult?"

She asks, teasingly. He smirks, looking down at the worn blue ink. If only she knew how on the mark she was.

"Something like that. It's sort of like a family crest."

And it's close enough to the truth. He's just leaning in for a second taste when her phone buzzes from the floor and she glances at the alarm clock sitting on her bed stand and swears loudly, jumping up and pulling her shirt on hurriedly.

"Shit, I'm gonna be late again and Al's gonna have my ass. Here, hurry, get dressed."

She says, bending down to pick up Dean's jeans from the floor and throwing them in his direction. They hit him in the face.

"Still better then camping."

He mutters, as he starts to pull his pants on. She pauses, gives him a strange look.

"What?"

He snags his shirt from where it's hung over a lamp and shakes his head.

"Nothing."

When she finishes locking the front door of her apartment she turns and presses a deep kiss to his lips, he kisses her back, hungry, and his hands grab her by this hips, yanking her closer. He can feel her giggles against his mouth. It's funny, in a bitter sort of way, because this is exactly the scene he'd caught Sam in outside his place. With Amelia. It's so different though, because had been love there. Been kindness. This is an exchange, nothing more nothing less. They're both just using each other for their own gratification.

"See you around?"

The girl asks, half hopeful and half resigned. He gives her a wry smile, rubbing at the back of his head.

"Yeah, I don't think so sweetheart."

He leaves town just as quick as he entered it, Bon Jovi blasting on the stereo and windows rolled down. There's something building in his chest, something manic, something wild. He feels a little like the time he got hopped up on way too much Adderall after a hunt in New Mexico had dragged way past it's expiration date. Like his heart might beat out of his chest if he's not careful. His fingers tap an anxious beat on the steering wheel. The truth is he's afraid. Afraid because Pamela might have given him an out from whatever this is, but he's still stuck thinking it's too good to be true. Easy doesn't just fall into his lap like that, things are _never _just easy. There's always a catch, and Dean's stuck sitting here wondering where this one is. And fuck, he hates that he can't even take a good thing when it comes. That this life has turned him into someone who always looks for the flaws, looking for the ugly side of things. It's kept him alive, though, he knows that. Sometimes he's just not so sure it should.

He pulls over at a rest stop just past Springfield for a piss break and a chance to stretch his legs. As he's walking back to the car he sees a sign, _World's Largest Ball of Twine, Exit 82A, _it's only about a half hours drive from here. What the hell, he thinks, not like he's got anywhere important to be the next three weeks. It's the kind of stuff he always wanted to do and Sam always thought was a waste of time. Might as well now there's no one to nag him about it.

As it turns out the World's Largest Ball of Twine is somehow not as impressive as he though it'd be. It's exactly what it sounds like, a giant dusty ball of string sitting on a concrete slab in a field off of I-65. Less then captivating. Dean grabs a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniels from the floor of the backseat and gets out, walking around to the front of the Impala and leaning against the hood, screwing off the cap and bringing the bottle to his lips. The sky is still grey and heavy, and the humid air smells like rain. His shirt feels moist and clingy against his skin. He thinks that maybe he didn't really give a shit about seeing the World's Largest Ball of Twine or Stubby Stonehenge or whatever; he just wanted to see them with Sam.

Something stings at the bag of his eyes and he sniffs, looks up for a moment and blinks till the feeling recedes. He barely flinches when he glances back down and Sam's standing in front of him. Sam opens his mouth but Dean cuts him off.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I gotta wake up. Thanks for the info."

He sighs, taking a slug of whiskey. The apparition says nothing. Just watches him. Dean leans down and picks up a chunk of dirt and gravel, throwing it towards his brother. It flies rights through him and breaks apart against the twine ball.

"You're not real, asshole, and I'm tired of being scared of you. So either kill me, or leave me the hell alone."

Dean mutters, suddenly very tired, and finds he really means it. Sam shakes his head.

"No. I'm not going to kill you. You have to kill yourself."

He says, with a terrifying earnestness. Dean feels his blood run cold.

"Fuck you,"

He growls, which he knows is irrational and does know nothing but still makes him feel better, and then he gets back in his car and reverses out of the parking lot spewing gravel in his wake. He sets his jaw and drives and tries to ignore the panic bubbling up in his chest. He drives till he's back in Springfield and gets so plastered he forgets his own name for a minute. Wakes up, drives to St. Louis and does it all over again. He works his way east, hits Indiana for a few nights before moving on to Kentucky. He keeps going like this for a while, moving from town to city to town every few days. Spending most of his nights drinking himself under the table and most of his mornings sleeping it off. And just like that a week and a half is gone and hell if Dean barely remembers half of it. The dreams don't come as often when he drinks, he notices, so he figures he should keep on. He doesn't have any more hallucinations but Sam's last words to him ring at the back of his head in the quiet moments. He drowns them out with good Kentucky bourbon. And Dean thinks that he can't keep doing this, riding out the dips and troughs of his life. It's like every damn time he thinks things are better the wave just comes crashing down on his head and he has to fight just to not drown under it.

He's in a cheap backwater dive in Lexington, it's Tuesday night and the bars pretty empty except for a few biker looking types and guy slumped over a table in the back who Dean's pretty sure hasn't moved since he walked in. There's the sound of the front door swinging open behind him and then the tap of heels across hardwood floor. He looks and woman who's definitely too classy for this joint takes a seat on the barstool next to him in a cloud of floral perfume. She's pretty hot, in that 'better then you' type of way, and she eyes him as she orders a glass of wine in a posh British accent. Dean furrows his brow, she looks weirdly familiar but he can't imagine where he'd ever run into someone like her.

"Have we met before?"

He slurs when her gaze starts to get uncomfortable. She smiles,

"Oh, I don't believe so."

"hmphh."

He turns to his drink, throwing it back, feels it burn its way down his throat.

"Dean Winchester, correct?"

She says after a moment, as her wine is set in front of her, red like blood. He squints at her, taps at the rim of his shot glass and watches as the bartender fills it up again. His other hand casually slips inside his jacket, fingers closing around the hilt of the knife tucked into an inside pocket. This is starting to stink a whole lot like demon, and he's never one to be caught with his pants down.

"Who's asking?"

She smiles, predatory and beautiful.

"Just an interested party is all. Don't worry, I'm not here to kill you or anything silly like that, you can let go of that knife in your pocket."

He just shakes his head.

"Why don't tell me why you're looking for me and I'll let go of my knife."

She rolls her eyes and sighs.

"Boys and their toys. Call it…professional interest; I'm a…purveyor of a certain type of good, the more supernatural kind. I procure pieces of interest for people with lots and _lots_ of money."

Dean's fingers loosen on the knife and he raises an eyebrow.

"So you're a thief."

He asks dryly.

"Oh no, I'm a very _very _good thief."

Dean swallows down his shot, letting go of the knife, and setting the shot glass upside down on the bar top before turning to face her.

"So, why'd you come here to find me."

"Oh sweetie, you think I'm in town for you? I'm selling a few items at a private auction in St. Louis."

She says, laughing. It pisses him off. Dean snorts, gestures around their grimy surroundings with a whiskey-loose arm.

"And you're just here for the ambiance."

She shrugs, takes a delicate sip of her cabernet, wrinkles her nose disapprovingly and setting it back down.

"What can I say, a girl gets curious. Funny how the legend is so much more then the man."

She says flippantly, a hint of bite to the words. She watches him carefully though, like she's waiting to see how he'll react, like some sort of fucked up test. He's tempted to say something equally biting, but they're on uneven ground here and Dean restrains himself.

"Okay, fine. Whatever. How'd you find me?"

She raises one delicately arched eyebrow,

"It's hard to ignore Dean Winchester drinking his way though every seedy dive in the Midwest. People notice you, you know. Do tell, what's got you all worked up?"

He laughs, and it's bitter. He can't remember the last time it hasn't been.

"Haven't you heard? I'm cursed. Literally."

She raises one delicate eyebrow.

"Cursed?"

"You bet. Hallucinations, fucked up dreams, the whole damn package. A psychic over in Iowa gave me a way to break it but I dunno if I believe it's going to work."

He's not sure why he's telling her this. It's the booze, probably, or maybe it's something else. A strange sense that she knows what it is to be haunted, to be hunted. She nods, an odd look on her face, pity, maybe. Or understanding.

"Because it almost seems too good to be true."

She replies, softly. Dean pauses, a little startled by the answer.

"Yeah. Exactly…" He shakes himself a little, and gestures for another drink. "Anyways, figure if I'm going get ganked by some curse I might as well have some fun before I kick the bucket, what better way then to get totally tanked in as many shitty bars as I can. One last bender for the history books."

He says with a sardonic smile, lifting his fresh glass in an ironic toast.

"Oh I'm so sorry Dean, this must be so difficult for you," She says saccharine and caustic all at once, any trace of sympathy gone so fast he thinks he might have imagined it. "Man up, we're all cursed, one way or another. Stop crying into your whiskey about it, frankly it's pathetic."

And Dean knows that everyone has their crosses to bear, but some days he feels like his is the only thing keeping him upright. He doesn't know why he has to defend himself about it, especially not to some random chick he meant in a bar five minutes ago.

"Yeah? Try having your little brother follow you around telling you to kill yourself, see how well you hold up."

He sneers, turning away. She flips her hair over her shoulder, chilly and cutting

"Oh come on Dean, desperate isn't a good look on you."

"Yeah, well. Frigid bitch isn't either, but here we are."

He snaps back, starting to really get pissed. He's just trying to drink himself into a stupor in peace, he didn't ask for her to insert herself into his pity party. She smiles at that though,

"You know, I love it when you talk dirty like that."

She purrs, taking another sip of her wine with red red lips, and Dean feels a heat rising in his stomach despite himself. He's only human, after all. He coughs, covers it up by taking a long swallow of whiskey. Bela looks at him appraisingly and he resists the urge to squirm under her gaze like some prepubescent teenager.

"You know," she says, leaning forward, "when we finish our drinks, we should really have angry sex."

Dean swallows hard and finishes his drink

He wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache, an empty bed, and sheets that still smell like expensive perfume. It takes a second for the memories of the last night to come back to him, and when they do he's not sure whether he made a mistake or not. Either way, it's to late now. He hauls himself out of bed and into the shower, and when he gets out he feels a little better. He gets dressed and grabs his duffel, ready to hit the road again. When he reaches into his pocket for his keys though he finds that his wallet is missing and there's a note in its place. He unfolds it, paper dry against his fingers.

_Good luck with that curse Dean Winchester -Bela_

"Son of a _bitch_."

Too bad for her when she finds out all that's in there is a fake ID, a few maxed out fraudulent credit cards, and about 20 bucks in cash. Still he can't help but smile wryly. Guess that's what he gets for banging a thief. He turns for the door and thinks he's had enough of Kentucky for a while.

* * *

AN: I've always liked Bela. She was definitely conniving and selfish and lacked empathy but she was smart as hell, it was kind of fun to see someone run circles around the boys. And I always thought she and Dean had good chemistry, maybe because they were facing the same impending doom and there was some sort of fucked up understanding there. In the end she came through, too. I don't think she deserved what she got.


	8. Chapter 8

A warning, there is some discussion of suicide and scenes that could be triggering in this chapter so just be warned!

* * *

It's only about a week till the new moon now and he decides it's probably time to stop drinking himself into an early grave and head back to Bobby's. It's a two-day trip, and Dean takes it slow and careful. When Bobby opens the door he looks surprised.

"Well, you're back early."

He says, raising an eyebrow. Dean gives him a grin, pushing gently past him with his duffel slung over his shoulder.

"Yeah, well, figured we got work to do to prep."

Bobby shuts the door behind him, crossing his arms.

"Well then, lets get to it."

The next morning Dean starts running a fever, nothing crazy, not enough to put him out of commission or anything, but enough to be concerning. He can feel Bobby eyeing him, knows he sees the sweat and the pallor and the slight shakiness to his hands. Dean doesn't let him say anything though, one way or another this will be over in a few days. The morning after he decides it's time to get down to business. After they finish breakfast Dean pulls Pamela's crumpled list out of his pocket, scans over the ingredients.

"Okay, so we're gonna need a piece of selenite, cedar oil, blessed water, black thread, a puppet or doll, and some of my hair and blood." He makes a face as he finishes the list, "Well that's not creepy at all?"

Bobby scratches his beard, and ignores Dean.

"I got black thread and the holy water but the rest you're gonna have to go buy in town."

Dean looks to the paper and then back to Bobby.

"Where the hell am I supposed to find selenite in Sioux City."

He asks, skeptical. Bobby shrugs,

"Hell if I know. Try Michael's."

Dean sighs, knowing that's all he's gonna get from the other hunter, and tucks the list back in his pocket.

"And what're you gonna be doing while I'm hunting down essential oils and healing crystals?"

Bobby looks like he's thinking about it for a long second.

"You know? I think I'm gonna take a nap."

In the end Dean finds a selenite lamp, and he figures it's close enough. The doll he tracks down at a tiny vintage store. It's vaguely creepy, with staring black button eyes and stringy yellow hair made of yarn. He stuffs it face down at the bottom of the bag on the drive home.

"I had to go into bed bath and beyond to find this shit Bobby," he complains as he dumps his spoils on the kitchen table, "That place is terrifying. Everyone was so _happy_."

"My heart weeps for you, Dean."

Bobby says gruffly as he starts to unload a bag, raising an eyebrow when he pulls out the massive crystal lamp.

"What," Dean snipes a little defensively, "The lady said it was pure selenite. Had healing properties and all that crap. Cost me like fifty bucks too, highway robbery."

"I'd say that's a small price to pay for not being cursed anymore."

Bobby reminds him, setting the lamp down with a heavy thump. Dean figures he has a point. They survey the collection, all laid out the table like the salvaged trash of a schizophrenic serial killer. It's either going to break this curse, or it's not. All they can do now is wait for the moon.

Finally the morning of the new moon rolls around. Breakfast is quiet and reserved, and after he eats Dean withdraws to the garage to tinker with the Impala. There's nothing really wrong with it, but it's always helped calm him down. He ends up just sitting in the drivers seat with the door pushed open, drinking a beer. He stares out of the open garage door at the cloudy grey sky and broods. He still hasn't told Sam about everything going on. Hopefully he'll never have too. This whole thinks shaken him in a way that he didn't think was possible after everything that went down with Azazel and Sam and dad, shaken him to his foundations. The earth's moved, and he's still just trying to find his feet.

Around two Bobby brings him a sandwich, sets it on the tool bench. Dean gives the plate a look.

"Not hungry."

He mumbles, playing with the socket wrench in his hands.

"You should still eat."

Bobby says, leaning back against the bench and crossing his arms. Dean nods, but makes no move towards the food. Bobby sighs, reaching up to his adjust his cap, running a hand through his beard.

"Want to tell me what's on your mind?"

Dean snorts, getting up and wandering over to toss the wrench back into the toolbox.

"Take a wild guess Bobby."

He says, a little acidically. Bobby sighs again, and Dean notices the dark circles under his eyes and instantly feels like an asshole. He knows Bobby's been running himself into the ground over this. Knows he's not the only one who's worried.

"Sorry…it's just-"

Bobby cuts him off, waving a forgiving hand.

"I know." He says gruffly, "Me too. Now why don't you come back inside. No use moping around out here by yourself."

Dean huffs a sigh but he follows Bobby back inside, even remembering to grab the sandwich on the way. He's right, he thinks. He's tired of being alone.

They pass the rest of the day playing poker and blackjack. Bobby beats him soundly every hand, and Dean can't even be annoyed about it. At about nine Bobby looks out the window, surveying the now dark sky.

"Well, looks like it's time to get this show on the road."

He says. Dean swallows, nods. He feels a little sick, and he's starting to regret eating that sandwich earlier. They head outside, Bobby picking up the bucket of holy water and a shovel on the way. The sky is dark and clear and starry, the moon nowhere in sight. Setting down the bucket and bag of spell ingredients in the middle of the scrapyard Bobby steps to the side, leaning on the shovel and fishing out an aging flashlight from his pocket.

"Alright, what now?"

He says, clicking the dim light on and pointing it towards Dean. Dean squints against it and consults Pamela's instructions.

"Okay selenite first,"

He says, dropping the chunk of rock he'd broken of off the lamp into the bucket. It sinks fast, leaving behind a trail of bubbles as it goes. Next is the cedar oil. He pours the entire bottle of essential oil in for good measure since Pamela hadn't specified amounts in the instructions, and he's not taking any chances with this. Soon the air is filled with the fresh sharp scent of cedar. It's almost pleasant. Finally he pulls his pocketknife out his jeans and reaching up trims a small lock of hair off his head. He ties it to the doll with the black thread and sets it down on the ground, kneeling beside it. A quick flick of the blade and he opens a cut on his palm, letting it drip slowly onto the doll and hair. In the dim light of the stars and Bobby's flashlight it look's black and slick, like an oil spill. Dean's stomach turns; fucking witches and their obsession with people's bodily fluids. Grabbing the doll and standing back up he glances over at Bobby and taking a deep breath. Dangling the doll over the bucket with one hand he holds up the paper and begins to recite the spell.

"Hasbnallaahu wa ni'amal-wakeel."

As he finishes he drops the doll into the bucket. It falls with a splash, floating face down on the surface of the water like a corpse, blood blooming around it. Dean crouches down, pokes it a couple times till he's sure it's soaked through.

"So, what now"

Bobby asks, cautious. Dean looks up, face shadowed.

"Now we bury the damn the thing."

It's quick work, Dean's had a lifetime's experience in digging graves and this one's shallower then most. He drops the doll into the small hole in Bobby's yard and shovels dirt back over it, patting it down till it's firm and flat. Nothing happens, not that Dean really expected anything. Bobby looks at him,

"That it?"

Dean nods, leans a little on the shovel.

"Yeah."

"Think it worked?"

Bobby asks, glancing around him as if the answers hiding somewhere in the shadows of the junkyard. He's just opening his mouth to tell Bobby he's not sure when he freezes, words stuck in his throat like gum, because standing just behind Bobby is Sam.

"No…" he whispers, "No."

Bobby's brow furrows, and he looks over his shoulder to where Dean's gaze is pinned and sees nothing. Turns back.

"Dean?"

"He's here Bobby, he's still here."

Dean mumbles, lips suddenly numb and fingers loose and weak around the shovels handle.

"What the hell are you talking about boy?"

"It's Sam. It didn't work Bobby. The damn spell didn't work."

And he feels despair rise in him. It comes slowly at first, and then at all at once. Like the ebb and swell of the tides against the shore. He runs his hands through his hair, fingers clutching at the short strands, and he turns away from Bobby. Because this was it, this was his last chance. That frigging doll was his only hope, and now it's nothing. Just blood and string and bullshit. Like everything else in Dean's life it seems these days. Somewhere in the distance he can hear that Bobby's still talking.

"Alright, we'll go back to Pamela, get her to give us another spell."

Dean turns back to him, disbelieving, tries to look at Bobby and not the pale lanky figure standing behind him.

"Pamela? We tried Pamela, Bobby. She didn't give us crap. This," he bites out, gesturing to the bloody bucket and shallow grave, "This didn't work."

And it's probably not fair to her, but Dean's pissed and terrified and hopeless. Bobby nods, lifting his hands in an appeasing gesture.

"Okay, okay, then we've still got the lore. We'll hit the books till we find something."

And Dean almost laughs then, would've if it didn't hurt so much. Bobby always did put too much faith in him, never knew when to give up.

"The lore? Bobby we looked for the _days_ and we found jack. There's nothing in the books. Whatever this is it's not stopping, and it's not going away, and no hoodoo spell is gonna change that."

"So what," Bobby spits, pissed now Dean can tell, "you're just givin' up? Throwin' in the towel? That don't sound like the Dean I know."

Dean shakes his head agitatedly, reaching up and scrubbing a rough hand over his head. He turns away again, pacing around in short tight laps; feeling like a wild animal trapped in a cage two sizes to small. He glances to the side, at Bobby's house, and falters. For a second the house is gone, and its place are a pile of smoldering ruins. He blinks, and when he looks again it's gone. It's just Bobby's house, sturdy and dependable as ever.

"Dean," Sam says, "Wake up Dean."

He spins, and the tide ebbs and despair is gone and in it's place there is rage.

"Shut up," he roars, "Shut the hell up!"

Bobby flinches, stepping back.

"Dean, I didn't say any-"

Dean shakes his head, knowing he looks crazy. Not knowing how to stop. He's losing control here, or he lost it long ago. Lost it when he dropped Sam off at that motel. And now everything's crashing down around his ears and there's no way to stop it.

"I know, it was…Sam."

He says, quiet now. His head throbs, bright and insistent and he squeezes his eyes shut. Images flash on the backs of his eyelids, a burning pyre, Sam, older now and with his hair parted funny and pushed back from his face, a strange man in a trench coat. It's a blur of color and movement and it makes him sick to his stomach. He pries his eyes open again, gasping for breath. Bobby's looking at him like he's totally lost it.

"Dean…" he says slowly, "your nose."

As he says it Dean feels the warm trickle of something from his nose, trailing salty over his lip. He reaches a hand up to his mouth and his fingers come away smeared with blood.

"Shit,"

He whispers. His eyes drift up past Bobby's shoulder and lock with Sam's. _You're dying, Dean_. And he hears it even though neither of them say anything. The keys to the Impala hang heavy in his pocket. Bobby shifts towards him warily, as if he can tell what Dean's thinking, like he can forestall this somehow.

"Dean…" He says warningly, "_Stay with me_."

For a second, for the barest fraction of a second, Bobby doesn't sound like Bobby anymore. And that's enough. The keys are out of his pocket and in his hand in a second, and then he's tailing it for the car. Bobby sees, tries to follow but Dean's got a head start.

"Dean, don't you dare run you stubborn asshole! We can figure this out! Together!"

Dean doesn't listen though, just turns the keys in the ignition and skids out of the junkyard like a bat of hell. Bobby calls him, phone buzzing bright on the seat beside him but he ignores it. He runs, because he's good at it. Because he has too. But a part of him knows it doesn't matter, because the shit he's running from? He carries it with him everywhere he goes. As if to prove the point the damn ringing starts to rise in his ears. He curses, swerving a little on the road as his vision starts to go around the edges. He knows he should pull over, should stop the car, but Dean's never been one for good decisions so he just pushes the pedal to the floor like if he just drives fast enough he'll leave all this behind. The last thing he sees before he blacks out is the speedometer ticking past fifty.

He comes to with a start. He's slumped over the dash, steering wheel digging in to his stomach uncomfortably. It's still dark, which means he's hasn't been out for too long. He groans as pushes himself up, ribs protesting loudly and indignantly at the movement. Shaking his head clear he glances around, getting an idea of the damage. Somehow he didn't hit anything straight on, which is fortunate because he's pretty sure he'd be dead if he had. Instead the Impala is nose first in a ditch, tilting slightly to the left. He pushes open the drivers side door and stumbles out. There's a cut above his eyebrow dripping blood, the salt stinging at his eye. He blinks, wipes the back of his hand across his forehead and surveys the damage. It could have been a lot worse, it _should_ have been a lot worse. As it is the front bumper is a little bent and there's a bloody smear and a hairline web of fracture lines where Dean's head apparently made contact with window and that's about it. The real trouble is going to be getting the car out of the friggin ditch.

He slides further down the embankment, dirt crumbling under his boots as he goes, and circles around to the hood. Getting his shoulder low and digging his feet in he starts pushing. Despite all his straining he gets next nothing though, just the faint creaking of metal as the Impala rocks gently and stays exactly where it is. He gives up, panting a little, and curses. This is exactly the opposite of what he needs right now, he needs to get the hell away from here. Needs to get somewhere he can think.

He's just considering his (very limited) options and trying to decide how fucked he is when he hears a car in the distance, the rumbling of the engine growing closer and closer. He stands back a little warily and waits. A truck materializes out of the darkness with Sioux Falls Sheriff emblazoned across the side and stops in front of Dean, engine cutting out. A woman in a uniform with short cut hair gets out, hands hooked in her belt.

"You alright there sir?"

She asks guardedly. Dean gives her his best smile, eyes the badge on her hip and the winch on the front of her truck and weighs his options. Decides it's worth the risk to get his damn car out of the ditch. Plus, he feels a familiar sense of safety around her for some odd reason he can't explain, which is par for the fucking course these days. He decides to run with it.

"Well, I could use a little help here."

"Yeah, I can see that. Want me to drive you to a hospital?"

Dean shakes his head, dusting his hands off and gesturing to the car.

"Nah, I'm fine. Just need to get my car out of this ditch."

She makes a move towards her truck, but pauses, turning back to Dean.

"Before I help you out, you haven't been drinking have you? Cause if you have the only help your getting is straight into jail."

"No ma'am. Sober as a judge. Just lost control for a second there."

Dean says, shaking his head, and thanking god that for once it's true. Sure, he's suffering from vivid hallucinations and loses consciousness on regular basis but he hasn't touched a drop since this morning. She looks at him discerningly for a second before apparently deciding that he's not lying.

"Alrighty then, let's do this."

She climbs back her truck, backing it up till it's facing the Impala head on. Hopping out again she reaches into the back and pulls out a chain extension, tossing it to Dean. He hooks it's to the Impala's undercarriage before scrambling out of the ditch and giving the other end to the Sheriff who attaches it to the end of the winch cable.

"So," she asks as she shifts the winch into gear, "What's your business round these parts."

Dean shrugs, folds his arms as he watches the Impala slowly grind out of the ditch.

"Just visiting a friend."

She looks at him again, eyes drawn to his forehead.

"You sure you don't want me to take you to a hospital? That looks pretty deep."

Truth be told he'd mostly forgotten about the gash, and he reaches a hand up to prod at it. His fingers come away red, and he wipes them on his jeans.

"I'm sure. I've had worse."

He says with a forced grin. And ain't the damn truth. She looks like she want's to say more but he's save by the scraping sound of the Impala's front wheels scraping asphalt.

"Well, looks like that's that." He says, hurrying to unhook the chain and hand it back to her. "Thanks for your help Sheriff..."

"Mills. Jody Mills."

She says, extending a hand. He takes it, and her grip is firm.

"Well, thanks Sheriff Mills. I should probably get going now."

She doesn't let go of his hand, though, just squeezing a little tighter, and he shifts uncomfortably.

"Dean," she says, and he doesn't remember ever giving her his name. "_Stay with me_. I can help."

And she sounds like Bobby back in the junkyard, sounds like something not quite human. Dean jerks his hand free like it's been burned, all pretenses gone now.

"Yeah, don't think I need your help."

Backing away slowly at first, and then quicker when she makes no move to follow he opens the car door and slides in the front seat, never taking his eyes off the cop. Keeps one hand around the handle of the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans. Yanking the door shut behind him he fumbles the keys into the ignition and reverses till he's straight on the road, then hits the gas. She steps to the side a little as he pulls past her, face eerily blank. When he looks in the rear view mirror he sees her standing there watching him from the middle of the road, pale in the darkness. She doesn't get in her car or come after him though, and he counts his blessings.

After that he hauls ass west across the state, drives hard and fast and doesn't stop. Bobby calls him a few more times but he lets the phone click to voicemail every time and eventually Bobby gives up. He drives till he's across the state border in Wyoming. He finds a motel and checks in under a fake name, pays for the week in cash. Then he locks himself in his room and pours salt and goofer dust across the doorway and windowsills, draws every protective or warding sigil he can think of on the walls. Not that it'll do anything really, but it makes him feel better. When he's finally done he sits himself on the bed, gun next to him and bottle in his hands.

The next few days are a blur. He drinks and doesn't sleep. Sometimes he turns on the TV and tries to watch whatever bullshit is playing but he can't focus on the screen. Bobby keeps calling him, leaves messages that Dean deletes without listening to. Mostly he paces back and forth inside the tiny motel room, from wall to wall. He doesn't know what's going on, just that there's a pervasive sense of wrongness clinging to him he can't shake. His fever keeps rising, like he's burning up from the inside.

When he does drift off, he dreams. They're different now though, a whirlwind of images and scenes. Most of them are horrible, Sam with his mouth covered in a blood, Bobby in a hospital bed with a bullet in his brain, Jo pale and shaking on the ground with her stomach torn to shreds. Sometimes they're not though; there are good things in there too. Beers with Sam by a lake, Lisa and a home and a feeling of rest he's never felt before, the man in the rumpled trench coat and tie. A few times, though, he dreams of pain and darkness and heat, of blood and feat and a demon named Alistair. He wakes up screaming from those, nose running blood. And he thinks they're more like memories then dreams except Dean's sure he's never lived through any of these.

On his fourth day in the motel room Sam calls. He watches the phone ring and ring and ring, torn between answering and not answering. He's not even sure what he would say, if he did pick up. Eventually it clicks to voicemail. Sam's voice echoes in the motel room, tinny and distant and small.

"Hey, Dean. It's me. Bobby called, didn't give me the details but said you went AWOL and that you were acting pretty wacked out. Just… give me a call back. Let me know you're okay."

Dean doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, he's so far from okay it's almost funny. Thinks he's lost total perspective on what okay even is anymore. He pushes himself off the bed, scrubbing at his face, walks over to the kitchenette to pour himself a drink. When he turns back Sam's standing in the middle of the room.

"Hey asshole."

He says tiredly, taking a healthy sip of whiskey and wandering past his brother. He drops into the desk chair, too tired and wired to do anything but sit.

"Dean. Please."

Dean shakes his head, finishing off his glass. He should have brought the bottle.

"I swear to god if you tell me to wake up I'll-"

"You're dying."

Dean scoffs, gets up again and heads back to the kitchenette, abandoning the glass on the desk.

"Yeah, you've mentioned."

He unscrews the cap on the bottle and throws it on the countertop, watches it bounce across the warped plastic. He takes a messy slug, whiskey spilling out of his mouth and dripping down his chin.

"You have to save yourself, Dean."

Dean snaps then, slamming the bottle down so hard liquor splashes out the top and spinning to face Sam.

"So tell me what to do!" He roars, past desperation, past caring. "Just tell me what to do, Sammy, cause I don't know, okay. I don't know."

Sam stares back at him, and if Dean didn't know he wasn't real, he'd swear he could see tears shining in his eyes.

"I have told you."

Dean remembers Missouri, remembers the humid sticky heat and the stupid giant ball of twine and the way the air tasted of storm. He turns away, hands clutching for purchase at the counter, heart fast in his chest. He swallows hard.

"That can't be the answer. It just _can't_."

"I'm sorry."

Says Sam, looking so impossibly sad. And then the ringing starts again.

When Dean wakes up he's face down on the carpet surrounded by the shattered glass of the whiskey bottle and it's dark outside. He blinks blearily, picking himself up carefully, glass crunching under his boots as he stands. He wipes his hand down his face and it comes away bloody, he can feel it drying tacky on his neck. He was out for longer this time. He wants a drink but currently his last bottle of whiskey is soaking into the carpet so he settles for a beer. He twists the cap off and lowers himself down on the floor beside the bed, legs drawn up towards his chest and elbows resting on his knees. It feels safer down here, somehow, tucked between the wall and the bedframe. Like when you're a little kid and think hiding under your covers will keep the monsters out. Dean was never a kid though, and he knows that it's not sheets that keep the things that go bump in the night at bay, it's .45's and silver bullets.

Still, he curls himself up and takes a long swallow of his beer and thinks. Really thinks. Thinks about all the weird shit, the dreams that are seeming less and less like dreams, the memories that he can't remember, the feelings of déjà vu. The way he knows people he shouldn't. He's adding it up and it's not painting a pretty picture. Bobby had shot down his djinn theory but Dean can't help but circle back to that thought, now that there's no one here to stop him. That maybe none of this is real. Maybe it's all a dream. And if it is then Sam could be trapped somewhere, bleeding, dying, desperately calling out for Dean.

And, god help him, there's a part of him that hopes this is all a dream. Because that would mean that Sam never left him, that what's left of his family somehow managed to stick it out. And he knows how fucked up that is, he's just not sure he cares.

The next morning starts out the same. He rolls out of a bed he's barely slept in, shambles his way to the fridge for a beer. He's barely taken a sip though when he feels something rise in his stomach and suddenly he's running for the bathroom. Bending over the sink he heaves and heaves and heaves and his mouth is warm and salty and when he looks down into the basin it's covered in his blood. And he knows then, that Sam wasn't lying. He's going to die one way another, the question is whether he wants to lie in bed and wait for it to come or if he wants to go down swinging, go down with a gun in his hand. He knows which way he'd prefer.

"You win, you bastard." He says to the mirror, teeth bared red, and wipes the blood from his mouth. "You win."

And he's not sure who he's talking too.

He calls Sam first, before, because real or not it feels wrong to do this without saying goodbye. He's relieved when it goes straight to voicemail. He's not sure he'd have the guts to go through with this if his brother actually picked up. He swallows hard, searching for the right words.

"Hey, Sammy. I just-I'm about to do something. And if I'm right then none of this is real and this phone call doesn't matter. If I'm wrong though…I need you to know it's not what it looks like. I went out fighting man, to the end. And I just want you to know that I love you, and I'm proud of you." His voice hitches, and he swallows hard, wipes at his face. "Keep going to school. Get married to that cute brunette. Have a bunch of rug rats and get old and senile and just…be happy, man. That's all I want from you, okay? Just do that for me."

He hangs up, takes a deep trembling breath. Then he turns back to the bed. His gun sits there on the sheets, silver handle glistening in the dim light. It's so familiar; Dean knows exactly how the grip will fit into his palm, the kick when he pulls the trigger. Knows that it always wants to pull a little to the left when he fires. It's saved his life a hundred times. Maybe it's about to save it again. Or maybe he's just gonna splatter his brains across the wall for the maid to find.

Walking over he picks it up, hefting it in his hand, feeling the weight of it. It seems heavier then usual, or maybe that's just the weight of what he's about to do. He sits on the end of the mattress, facing the door. He can't quite bring himself to lift the gun yet though, lets it rest on his knee, fingers white knuckled around the grip. Closes his eyes and tries to gather himself. It's easy, he tells himself, just one quick squeeze and it's done.

Slowly, slowly, with shaking hands, he raises the gun to his head. The muzzle is cool against his fevered skin, pressed against his temple. The safety's off and he cocks the gun, the click echoing in his ears. And god, he's scared he's scared he's scared. But if there's one thing Dean's learned it's that being scared doesn't mean shit, you just gotta buckle down and do it anyways. Closing his eyes he takes a deep breath. It's easy, just one quick squeeze and a bang and then… his phone rings, shattering the silence. He jumps a little, finger twitching away from the trigger as his eyes fly open. He glances down at where his cell is lying on the bed next to him and his heart stutters. It's Sam. He shouldn't answer, he knows, because if there's one person who can talk him out of this it's Sam. But Dean's never been able to deny his brother, not when it mattered. Almost unbidden he's picking up the phone and the gun falls to his lap again.

"Dean,"

His brother says, tense and strained, as soon as Dean hits answer. There's a loud rushing sound in the back of the call, like a river maybe, or a road.

"Dean where are you."

"Umm, I'm in a motel in Wyoming...the Blackbird…I think."

He tells him, because Sam deserves that much at least, deserves to know where to find him. It's not like he can get here in time to stop him anyways.

"Okay, I'm a day and half out. Dean, whatever you're doing, whatever you're _planning_ on doing, please, just wait. We'll figure it out together, okay? Me and you. You just have to wait."

His brother sounds desperate, sounds frantic. And it hurts somewhere deep inside of Dean, the part of him that knows that his one job, the only job that matters, is looking out for his little brother. It's not real though, he tries to remind himself, this Sam isn't real. It's a bare comfort. He screws his eyes shut, tries to ignore the stinging.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. But I can't. I gotta do this."

"Do what, Dean? Please I promise you, whatever is going on, whatever you've gotten yourself into, we can fix it."

Sam's pleading now, thinly veiled panic in his voice. Dean's only half paying attention though, because he's opened his eyes and standing in the doorway is Sam.

"Please Dean," he says, "You're running out of time."

"I know." He replies, looks down at the gun in his hand. "I know."

"What do you know? Dean, is there someone else there?"

Sam repeats in his ear, and the back and forth is making Dean's head spin. And now there is a choice: which Sam to believe. The one that stayed or the one that left. Which story does he choose for himself. And he knows, knows even before he decides. It's never really been a choice at all, in the end.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

He says, and he feels a strange sense of acceptance settle over him. On the other end of the line Sam gives up on any pretense of calm, shouting Dean's name over and over, begging. The Sam in front of him gives him a solemn nod, and just like that it's over, just like that he's done. Dean lifts the gun to his head, presses the barrel against his head hard enough to bruise. He finds Sam's gaze and holds it, just in case. Because if he fucked up, if this all goes to hell, if he's not waking up, he wants the last thing he sees to be his brothers face. He takes a deep breath, and thinks it's easy. Just one quick squeeze. It's easy. He pulls the trigger.

_Bang._

* * *

In which things go downhill very fast. Or uphill, depending on your perspective. Just an epilogue left and then we're done! I'm not going to lie I was originally planning on just having it end here, but I decided that I'm not that mean.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean wakes up. It's not the gentle sort of waking up; it's violent and messy and full of thrashing limbs. He doesn't realize he was on a bed till he hits the floor hard, shoulder and hip taking the brunt of the impact (and he already knows that's going to bruise). Before he even has time to process what's happened there are hands on his shoulders, his face, his neck, warm and shaky and urgent and then Sam's face fills his field of vision.

"Dean?"

He says, frantic and doubtful like he's not sure this is really happening and eyebrows are knit so tight together they're basically a unibrow. Dean groans around a too large tongue, eyes squinting against the bright lights of wherever the hell he is. Sam's still holding him, fingers tight enough on his shoulders to hurt and a desperate look to his face.

"Hey, man, you with me?

Sam asks, voice breaking over the words.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

Dean finally forces out. His voice is rough and scratchy and it hurts a little too talk, like he hasn't been using it much lately. Sam finally lets go of his death grip on Dean, falling back on his heels with a heaving sigh like all the tension's been bled out of him with just those words and with it his ability to remain upright. The relief is palpable, radiating off of him in waves, and there are tears glassy in his eyes. And that alone gives him an idea of how bad it must have been, if Sam's on the edge like that. Glancing around in a daze Dean dimly recognizes Rufus's old hunting cabin, the stuffed deer's marble eyes staring down blankly at him from over the fireplace. He turns back to Sam who's still on his ass next to Dean, looking pale and exhausted and so so relieved.

"You look like crap Sammy."

Dean rasps out from between dry lips, smiles till he feels them crack and bleed. Sam stares at him in a sort of weary incredulity for a long moment, and then something snaps and he laughs and laughs and laughs. Dean wants to join in, but suddenly there's bile rising in his throat and before he can say anything he's bent over puking his guts out onto the floor beside him. In an instant Sam's beside him again, hands on the back of his neck as Dean heaves, voice comforting in his ear. As it turn out there's not much food in Dean's stomach for him to throw up, instead all that comes out is a weird black goo, like blood slick on the hardwood. Sam presses a comforting hand to his back as he rides out the last of his heaving, guiding him back down after he finishes so he doesn't end up sitting in a puddle of his own sick.

"Well that sucked."

Dean grates out, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. And, unfortunately, it continues to suck. Never let it be said Winchester's ever do anything the easy way. As it is Sam barely gets him to the bathroom in time for a second round of heaving. He curls over the yellowing porcelain of the toilet bowl and vomits more black shit and counts his blessings that the cabin has indoor plumbing. Sam hovers behind him, but Dean slaps him off when he tries to rub his back. He's gotta draw the line somewhere. When he's finally finished turning his stomach inside out he slumps next to the toilet, leaning back against the sink and panting a little. Sam watches him from where he's perched on the tub, eyebrows still tightly knit and lips tight with concern.

"You okay dude?"

Dean gives him a grimace and wipes a sweaty hand against his forehead.

"Oh yeah, just peachy."

In truth though he does actually feel a little better, like his body was just excising some sort of poison or a bad burrito. A_ really_ bad one, judging from whatever's now coating the bottom of Rufus's toilet.

"So, what happened?"

Dean grunts out after Sam finally wrangles him into a chair in the living area. It's a difficult process that takes more time and effort and unsavory language then it should have. Dean discovers the hard way when he tries to get up from the bathroom floor and nearly takes a nosedive right back down to the ground that his legs are weak as hell. It took Sam looping an arm around his shoulder and nearly dragging him up to get his ass off the ground and situated.

"What… what do you remember?"

Sam asks instead of answering as he sets a glass of water down in front of Dean, sweeping aside a pile of print outs and books to make room for it before taking a seat across from him. Dean picks it up with trembling hands they both pretend not to notice and takes a long sip, water cool against his parched throat.

"Uh, we were in Coer d'Alene, ganked a rugarou that was chowing down on the locals."

Sam nods, drags a hand across his mouth. He looks like he hasn't shaved in days, or slept for that matter.

"Yeah, so after that we crashed for a night before heading out. Next morning you just didn't wake up. Tried everything, but it was like you were in a coma or something. The cabin was only a few hours away so I loaded you up and drove over. Set up camp here to figure out what was going on."

"How long was I out for?"

Dean asks, half dreading the answer. Sam looks down at his hands, sniffs.

"Week and a half yesterday."

He says quietly. Dean winces. That would explain why he's weaving around like a drunk toddler.

"So you figure it out?"

He questions, taking another gulp of water. He tries to remember to pace himself because he doesn't really fancy vomiting it all up again right away. Sam just gives him a confused look and Dean rolls his eyes. For someone so smart sometimes his little brother can really be thick.

"Did you figure out what dropped me?"

Sam nods, leaning forward to sift through the mess on the table and handing Dean a sheet of paper. He scans it quickly, brow furrowing.

"What the hell is a…psycho-psychowhat?"

Sam sighs, runs a hand through his hair to push it out of his face.

"A psychophagus. They're pretty rare and there's almost no lore on them. Near as I can tell it's some sort of parasite. It feeds off of fear and pain, gets in your head and figures out your worst nightmare and sticks you in it till your body gives out and then moves on to the next host."

"So kind of like a reverse djinn?"

Sam tilts his head, shaking his hair out of his eye.

"Uh yeah, guess so. You probably just puked up the last of it over there." He gestures vaguely back to the pile of black goo Dean had expelled violently a few minutes ago, "The only way to get out of it is from the inside. You have to, well, you have to…"

"Off yourself." Dean finishes for him with a sort of grim humor, throwing the paper back down on the table. "Yeah. Figured that out."

Sam watches him for a moment, uneasiness poorly hidden in his eyes, hands clenched tight in between his knees. It makes Dean fidgety.

"How are you feeling?"

Sam asks carefully, like he knows he's treading dangerous ground here and he's worried he's about to step on a landmine and lose a leg. Dean pulls a face, shrugs.

"Like I just took a week and a half long nap. So kinda like a cat puked in my mouth. How bout you? Looks like you could use some shuteye yourself, when's the last time you slept?"

Which is pretty much the Sparknotes version of how Dean is really feeling, with an obvious diversion tacked on at the end. Dean's an artist when it comes to escaping his brothers over anxious 'how are you feelings', and he's found the best way to derail the scrutiny is to turn it back on Sam. Sam seems to recognize the out, but let's Dean have it. He lets out a short huff of laughter, wry look on his face.

"Yeah, well, you certainly don't make it easy on a guy. About a week in you started running a pretty bad fever, bleeding out of your damn ears. Had a couple seizures too. You scared the shit out of me Dean. Kinda hard to go to sleep after that."

Sam sounds very young suddenly, and there's a searching look to his face. Like when he was a kid and had a nightmare and crawled into Dean's bed with teary eyes, looking for reassurance that it was nothing but a dream. They're not kids anymore though, and it's been a long time since either of them believed nightmares were just nightmares. Dean wants to reply, but he's not sure what to say. Offer comfort to his brother maybe, like he had all those years ago, or brush aside the concern like he always does. Crack a joke to remind them both that they're fine, they're always fine. They have to be fine. Before he finds the words though Sam shakes himself and stands, and just like the moment is gone and Dean is left feeling like he missed something important but he's not sure what. Sam claps his hands together and gives Dean an anemic smile.

"So, you must be starving, want something to eat?"

As if to remind him he hasn't eaten in almost two weeks Dean's stomach lets out a loud gurgle and he grins,

"Oh hell yeah."

The excitement fades a little when Sam returns from the kitchen with a bowl of from-the-box tomato soup.

"Aw come on, really? This ain't real food Sammy, I need a burger or something not baby food."

Sam shakes his head and shoves a spoon into Dean's hand.

"All you've had for the past week is IV bags, no way you're jumping straight to solids. Now shut up and eat."

"Yes mom."

Dean mumbles begrudgingly, but ladles a spoonful into his mouth. It tastes pretty damn good he has to admit, even if it isn't a burger. While he eats Sam putters around the cabin, mopping up Dean's vomit and trying to pretend he's cleaning up. He keeps glancing over at Dean though, as if to reassure himself that he's still there, like he blinks Dean's a vegetable again. In any other situation it would irritate him but he figures Sam probably deserves it on this one. Eventually he finishes his tomato soup, feeling a little bit like a fourth grader, and sets it down on the table, leaning back in his chair. Immediately Sam swoops in, picking it up and bringing it over to the sink like an OCD soccer mom. Setting it down he turns back to Dean.

"So, maybe you should get some-"

Dean cuts him off before he can finish though.

"Sam I swear to god you tell me to get some sleep and I will start throwing punches."

Sam purses his lips, steeling himself for the battle ahead, folding his arms across his chest like a shield. Dean's not sure when everything turned into a fight for them.

"I know, I know. But you're still recovering. You really went through the ringer man, I think rest-_real_ rest-would be good for you."

"Dude, I just _rested_ for a week and a half. Do I feel like crap? Yeah. But sleep's not what I need right now."

Sam sighs, a long whistling sound and Dean knows he's won the battle, if not the war. He decides to push the advantage while he has it.

"While you're up how bout a beer? It's a liquid isn't it? I think I deserve a little something after my time in nightmare land."

Sam flinches, nearly imperceptible, but Dean's spent his whole life with guy and he sees it. He feels a little bad for leveraging what was obviously a craptastic week for his brother, but then again it's not exactly like he was having the time of his life either. Either way Sam nods, opening the fridge, pulling out two beers and handing one to Dean. He cracks it open and takes a sip, watches as Sam does the same.

"I talked to you, you know, while you were out. I read somewhere that in coma patients one of the last senses to go is hearing, and that it's supposed to be good for them if you talk to them. I don't even know if you could hear me but I figured it couldn't hurt."

Sam says quietly, avoiding Dean's gaze, like he's admitting something secret and a little embarrassing. Like Dean hadn't sat next to his brother's cooling corpse and confessed his sins like Sam was about to sit up and reply.

"I heard you Sammy." he says, "Trust me, I heard you. I think you might've even saved me, in the end."

Sam looks up at that, eyes all watery and wide again, a weak smile fluttering at the corners of his mouth, before he ducks his head. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Come on, no chick flick moments. You know the deal."

Sam laughs wetly, hair falling over his face, and he reaches a hand up to swipe at his eyes.

"Yeah, I know." He says, looking up at Dean again and clearing his throat. "So, how are you doing?"

Dean snorts, takes a drink from his beer.

"I already told you, I'm fine, alright."

Sam's got that look on his face though, the one that he always get's right before he tries to go all therapist on Dean and get them to talk about their feelings or whatever. The whole sharing and caring deal.

"Dean. We both know that's bullshit. It's not like anyone would expect you to be fine after that."

And he's not fine, of course he isn't. But he doesn't want to talk about that, not with Sam, not with anybody. Doesn't want to go back to that grimy motel room and that gun in his hands and Sam's desperate voice over the phone.

"Man, I just woke up from week long horror nap. Can't I just enjoy my beer?"

"Yeah, you're right, of course. Sorry."

Sam says immediately, contrite. Dean can feel Sam watching him though, and knows this isn't the end of it. Sam's like a dog with a bone when it comes to these things; all he's earned himself is a reprieve.

That night he makes Sam take the bed. He protests feebly, but Dean ignores it, telling Sam it's not like he's going to be sleeping much anyways and eventually Sam gives in. His brother's out pretty much as soon as he hits the sheets, snoring gently into his pillow. Dean can't help but smile, some things never change, a few apocalypses and change later or not.

He doesn't go to sleep right away, makes a couple laps of the small cabin under the guise of getting his legs back until he's forced to admit to himself he's scared. Scared to go back to sleep. Scared to wake up to find that maybe this was the dream in the end. It's unsettling; to lose your grip on what exactly is reality and what is not. And this seems real, but so had the dream. Eventually though he forces himself to lie down on the lumpy uncomfortable couch and close his eyes, tells himself that if he can face down the devil himself he can handle a nap. Sleep comes quicker then he thought it would, apparently living your worst nightmare isn't the most restful week of naptime he's ever gotten. He doesn't dream, and he thanks any god that might be listening for that.

"Alright," he asks the next morning after they eat. "Got any new cases?"

Sam pauses, glancing back at him with a creased forehead.

"Dean, are you sure you're ready? I mean-"

"I'm fine, Sam." Dean says, not giving him a chance to finish. "Anyways, monsters don't take breaks just because we do. So hit me with it, I know you've got something."

And it's true enough, but there's also a quiet sort of desperation to this. Dean needs to keep going, needs to do something other then sit here and stew. That's how he keeps ahead of this shit, it always has been, and they both know that. Sam looks unhappy about it, but walks over to the table and sifts though the papers scattered on it.

"Okay," he says after a moment of searching, "I got some weird deaths in down in Colorado. Victim's are always guys in their twenties. Insides vaporized and doors were locked from the inside with no visible signs of forced entry."

He offers up the information begrudgingly, scanning over a notebook page. Dean claps his hands together, pushing himself up from the table.

"Well let's get to it then."

It doesn't take to long to pack up, it never does with them. As Sam shoves his research into a backpack Dean rifles through the duffle Sam had brought in for him for a change of clothes, the ones he's in are starting to smell a little ripe. He unzips it, and pauses. Sitting in his duffel on top of his clothes where he'd packed it almost two weeks ago is his colt. He swallows, staring down at it. It looks so innocent, just lying there, pearl handle glinting in the light. It's just a gun, he tells himself. Just a gun.

"Hey, man, you good?"

Sam asks, noticing his human statue routine. Dean clears his throat, pulling a flannel out of the bag and shaking himself.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm good."

And he tries to mean it. When they get outside Sam moves to throw him the keys but Dean shakes his head.

"You take a turn. I've…I've been doing a lot of driving lately."

Sam looks like he wants to ask but he restrains himself, and Dean's grateful for that. They load their stuff in the trunk and Dean opens the passenger side door, slides in. It feels good to look over and see Sam sitting next to him, real Sam. Feels better then he thought it would.

"So, what are you feeling? Metallica? Mötorhead?"

Sam asks as they pull out of the driveway. Dean shrugs.

"Hey man, you know what I always say. Driver picks the music."

Sam's eyebrows migrate upwards but he keeps his mouth shut and put's on some new age hippie shit which Dean detests, but suffers through with grace. Somewhere just past the Colorado border Dean makes Sam pull over on the side of some backwater road.

"I need to stretch my legs."

He says, when Sam looks at him questioningly. Sam's been fidgeting the whole drive so far, fingers tapping on the wheel and his jaw working hard enough that Dean already knows he's going to have a headache later. It's classic Sam behavior when he's trying to hold himself back from prying. They both know he's going to break, sooner or later. He always does. Dean figures he might as well get it over with. He pulls the beat up blue cooler out of the trunk, sets it down by the hood and leans back against the warm metal. Sam sighs and circles around, leans back next to him Dean offers him a beer and he takes it. Reaching in to grab one for himself he twists the cap off and tosses it into the scrubby bushes along the side of the road, takes a long sip and sweeps his gaze over the scenery. It's nothing much, just empty fields of grass and brush, but Dean kind of likes it. Beside him he can feel Sam shuffling uncomfortably. He sighs,

"Come on, Sam, I can tell you're sitting on something. Just spit it out already for Christ's sake, before you have an aneurysm."

Sam looks down, fidgeting with the torn label of his beer.

"I mean, worst nightmare Dean, Jesus…what…what did you dream about?"

And Dean knew this question was coming, knew it from the moment he woke up. And he knows what Sam is really asking is out of the width and breadth of fucked up traumatic things they've been through, which is the worst. What's Dean's own personal hell. Which really means something considering they've both been to the real one.

"Clowns, Sammy. Hundreds of midget clowns just chasing me around the whole damn time."

He says with a grin. The lie falls easily off his tongue, and it's obvious Sam doesn't believe him. What's he supposed to do though, tell the truth? Tell his brother that his worst nightmare isn't reliving actual literal hell, isn't dad's death or Bobby getting shot or Sam throwing himself in the pit. It isn't any one of the messed up terrible things that's happened to him. It's just Sam leaving. Just Dean on his own, and that was enough to almost break him. Just the thought of his brother being happy and safe was Dean's nightmare. No, he'll take that to his grave and let Sam think what he wants.

Sam gives him a look, but doesn't push any farther. He takes a sip of his beer and looks out across the horizon. There are clouds in the distance but right now the sky's blue enough that it almost hurts to look at, and the grass shimmers gold and green. The bottle is cool in his hand and his brother is warm at his side. There's a soft breeze blowing from the south, whispering though the field. Dean smiles. He thinks he can live with this.

* * *

AN: And that's that! Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


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